Mea Culpa
by Inaniloquently
Summary: During Charles' tour of Belize, Molly receives a phone call.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer

 _Our Girl_ (and the characters, storylines and ideas related to them) belong to writers and any other relevant Copy Right owners. This story has not been written for any profit and no infringement is intended.

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Confíteor Deo omnipoténti

(I confess to almighty God)

 _et vobis, fratres,_ (and to you, my brothers and sisters,)

 _quia peccávi nimis (_ that I have greatly sinned,)

 _cogitatióne, verbo,_ (in my thoughts and in my words,)

 _ópere et omissióne:_ (in what I have done and in what I have failed to do,)

 ** _mea culpa, mea culpa,_** **(** **through my fault, through my fault)** ,

 ** _mea máxima culpa._** **(** **through my most grievous fault** ;)

 _Ideo precor beátam Maríam semper vírginem,_ (therefore I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin,)

 _omnes angelos et sanctos,_ (all the Angels and Saints,)

 _et vos, fratres,_ (and you, my brothers and sisters,)

 _oráre pro me ad Dóminum Deum nostrum_ (to pray for me to the Lord our God.)

 _Confiteor (Source: Wikipedia)_

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 **Chapter One – The Call**

The call came in the middle of the night, as it usually did in any of the nightmares I'd ever had that featured this scenario.

I was in Keogh Barracks Aldershot, in a single room because the Mews House we bought in Bath wasn't home anymore since he stopped coming home. There was a rap on the door from the Duty Officer to say I had a call. I knew, from the way the Lieutenant couldn't meet my eyes, it wasn't good news. She'd never had a problem looking me in the face when bollocking me on the Parade Ground. No issues at all.

Standing in bare feet, M&S PJ bottoms, and one of his army issue T-shirts in front of my Captain, I know the worst has happened, but still couldn't find the words to ask what, because that would make it real.

Then Captain Andrews speaks and the words wash over and around me like water flowing passed a rock in a stream.

"Brigadier McPhail's Adjutant is on the phone with news from Belize…there's been an accident… I need to stay calm…Do I want anyone to be with me…"

Calm, collect tones.

Simple phrases.

Gentle platitudes.

A warm hand on my shoulder.

My face remains neutral. Inside I'm screaming.

My nervous habit is the same as his, twisting my wedding ring on my left hand in times in distraction. The solid warmth of the circle of platinum is comforting, remembering the words he chose to be inscribed inside. His words, our secret.

 _From the first minute to our last, I was always yours._

When I reach for the familiar comfort and find it missing, the screaming inside my head gets louder. I'd given it to him after our last non-fight. It couldn't be called a fight if only one person was fighting. It took two and the shell that was left of my husband didn't have any emotion left to give his wife, even anger.

He'd returned to the spare room, which had become his, and I returned to our former bedroom. When I got up in the morning he'd left earlier than he'd said for Brize Norton, and my ring was nowhere to be found.

That moment was perhaps the last of my many mistakes in trying to get him to care enough to try to save himself, if not us. The thought of it cut me to my core.

I swallow passed the lump in my throat and realise, absently, my face is wet.

More calm collect tones, simple phrases, a repeated question: do I want anyone with me?

I can't meet Captain Andrews' eyes, donn't want to see his pity or compassion, so instead focus on a place on his office wall behind his shoulder, on a picture on the wall of one his kids in school uniform standing outside a house. A boy, maybe, a little older than Sammie.

 _Sam, shit…_

"Jacs,"–the sound of my own voice startled me–"Corporal Jackie Nesbit."

The Sergeant, who I hadn't notice join our little party is dispatched with a nod from the Captain.

My feet are moving and I'm sitting in a leather office chair. A phone is pressed into my hand. The room empties.

"Hello?"

"Corporal James?"

I recognise the voice, he's known me as Private Dawes, Mrs James and even Molly at one particularly drunken Christmas regimental dinner, but never Corporal James. That was a new version of me. I'm not sure if it's a version of me that I like very much.

"Colonel Beck."

"Has Captain Andrews explained the situation–"

I don't want the polite words or careful sentiments, I only want the truth.

"Is he alive? Is Charles alive, that's all I need to know."

"Molly."

He breathes my name like the word is painful. Perhaps it is. I always thought he had a particular fondness for Charles that went beyond CO and subordinate.

Somewhere inside me I feel sympathy for him. I know what phone calls like this cost Charles each and every one of the too many times he'd had to make them. Knew and lived the resulting remains of the Officer and husband Charles had become because of the effects of those costs.

Deeper inside of me I feel my anger, because they–the Army– took too much and left him with too little to protect himself and didn't equip me with the ability to reach him before he become too lost inside himself to be found. All that training, and I wasn't good enough when it really mattered. What was the point of it all? Medals and honour, duty and sacrifice, if you couldn't save the ones you loved in the end.

"Tell me!" My voice is sharper but ends with a pathetic plea. " _Please,_ Sir?"

"Yes, as far as we know."

I breathe for what feels like the first time since the knock on my room door. A warm hand touches my knee. Jacs, crouched down on her knees sitting by my feet.

"He was on a training exercise in the jungle and sustaining an injury to his leg. Two Section's Medic stayed behind with him to wait for a Medivac while the rest of the Section returned to raise the alarm."

"His injuries?"

"He stepped on some sort of animal trap, this resulted in a puncture wounds to his upper thigh though the bone. The spear had to be left in situ."

I flinch. Jacs' hand tightens on my knee.

Catastrophic bleed, infection. He must be in agony. There's worse, I can hear it in Beck's voice.

"This is a tricky part of the country, near the Guatemala border. Drugs gangs operate to the North of the area of the training exercise. They've never been found that far South, as I understand it.

"When they went to retrieve them, they weren't at the original collection point. We assume they had to move. Two Section came under fire while they were searching the area."

"But you have him…I mean them, now?"

"No."

 _Catastrophic bleed, infection. He must be in agony…_ My earlier thoughts swirl nauseatingly around in my head. He was alive, but for how long? I put my hand over my mouth, retching.

A bucket appears under my face. I shove it away. A glass of water held out by a masculine hand appears. I push that away as well.

"Molly?" There it is again in Beck's quiet, cultured voice, pity.

My eyes flash around the room. They all have the same expression: Jacs at my feet, Captain Andrews hovering by his desk, the Lieutenant standing like a spare part in the doorway who still can't look me in the eyes. They're waiting for the wife to crumble. That's not going to happen, not yet.

"Tell me."

"We believe they've taken shelter in a village, Charles had tracker which is sending a signal. We can't extract them until daylight. It's a very politically sensitive area, and difficult terrain. The Brigadier is sending in Special Forces."

"Okay."

One, two three, four–breathe in…

"I understand."

Five, six, seven, eight–breathe out.

Steady rhythm. Hold focus. Keep it together.

My mask is in place; professional, detached, collected. I'm a Medic, was Beck's Medic. I received a Military Cross when in his chain of command. He owes me this. The Army owes me this. My husband is the regimental Golden Child, the one to watch, Beck told me once. They owe me this because they owe him so much _more_.

"I want to be out there when they find him. I won't make a fuss, won't cause a problem. You know me, Sir."

"I know, Corporal. I know. The Brigadier has already cleared it. I'm travelling from Bulford to Brize after this call. Get your kit together, Captain Andrews will arrange a regimental car to transport you to Brize."

"Thank you."

I return the phone to it's holder. More words are spoken. A hand is on my shoulder again and I'm walking from the room escorted by Jacs and the Lieutenant. I shower and put on my uniform while Jacs dresses herself, packs for me and finds my passport and paperwork.

I find my engagement ring on my dresser. I never gave that back to him and couldn't bare to leave our house without it when I returned to barracks. It sits on my finger looking odd without my wedding ring which is part of a paired set he picked for me. I take it off, adding it to a chain around my neck where it sits on my chest, close to my heart, hidden by my dog-tags.

We don't talk in the car. Jacs hold my hand and leaves me alone to my thoughts. I'm grateful she's there and grateful she knows what I need with her silent support.

Beck does talk on the plane as we sit side by side on a Hercules filled with other soldiers and supplies heading to some shit-hole in South America.

He talks about his wife, Emily, this last posting, the Brigadier and regimental news. I make the right noises, I guess. Nod when required, perhaps even smile with my mask in place. Professional, detached, controlled, as my training requires me to be.

Inside I'm burning.

It's a game we're playing here. Beck and I. He's playing empathetic duty of care to my respectful subordinate. He knows I have the specialist training to understand with terrifying detail what is happening inside my husband's body right now, while they've left him vulnerable out in an effective war zone. Nice phrases like 'politically sensitive' don't cover the truth of infection, Sepsis and ultimately multi-organ failure if they're not found in time. Assuming some drug runner hasn't managed a lucky shot.

He passes me food. I decline.

He passes me a bottle of water, with more emphasis than the food. I take it and drink.

I break roles once, when I realise we've been talking senseless nonsense for hours and have not once mentioned his name. It happens in a brief lull in conversation while Beck pauses to collect his thoughts.

"Charles told me in Afghanistan, that I was the last thing he wanted to see."

Tactless and blunt, I break the silence with the words that were the originating truth in my relationship with my husband, our beginning and our promised end. The roots and branches of how and why I love him and not something I should be sharing with his Command Officer.

The Afghanistan part hadn't been relevant more than defiant on my part. I'm airing my anger towards the Army, just a little, using Beck as target. I know, on some level, I'm being unfair.

Beck knows Charles, the man and the Officer. Has been at our wedding, and I suspect protected us from the fall out of our forbidden, to the Army, relationship. He's invested in this situation and I need him to hear all that I could lose if this goes wrong, before the anxiety bubbling inside me boils me alive.

He turns towards me, sheltering me from the eyes on the rest of the plane behind the breadth of his shoulders. There is kindness in his blues eyes, instead of pity. I am grateful for that. Instead of more words, he roots around in his pack and pulls out a hip-flask which he passes to me. I take a slug, feeling the burn of whisky hit the back of my throat.

It won't come to that for either of you."

His voice is quiet and confident, with all the assurance of his uniform behind it.

I hand the flask back and he tucks it back into his pack.

He starts with the small talk again, as though the moment earlier never happened, and we return to our parts. Careful words. Roles to act. Games to play.

I go back to counting my breathes as Corporal Molly James holds it together. Inwardly, Molly James the wife cries and pleads and prays as the hours pass with the miles.

Note

 _Songs for this one, if you want them, are Storm by Lifehouse and Carry You by Ruelle. Both are findable on YouTube._


	2. Chapter Two

As ever, thank you for the reviews.

 _This story is sadly not where the show is ultimately going, I'm guessing, so will stay in cannon until the end of episode four of the Belize Tour, then wander off into its own world.  
_

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 **Chapter Two – Arrival**

I've decided I'm starting to freak myself out with this cloak of detachment that I appear to have mastered. It's like looking through very thick glass at the world around me. Everything feels distorted, like it's not real, or maybe less than real. I don't really understand what's up with that, but if it's helping me to keep it together, I guess I should hold onto it.

Beck continues to talk. I smile, nod, respond. Rinse and repeat.

When too many hours have passed for me not to, I ask, and he confirms that he has a satellite phone on him. It doesn't ring during the flight, and that unnerves both of us, I think, judging by the number of times Beck removes it from the side of his pack and checks the screen.

I'm regretting my earlier Afgan related outburst. Beck is doing his best to distract me, and I believe this is out of fondness for Charles. For that, he deserves my respect and warmer feelings than my earlier misdirected hostility. He's not to blame for this. 

**ooOOOoo**

The airfield onto which we step is wet, the scenery green and the air unpleasantly humid. A British Army Corporal meets us in the airport building, standing to attention respectfully as he addresses Colonel Beck. When Beck strides off after murmuring my name, I follow across the tiled floor towards the immigration desk with the familiar weight of my Bergen moving against my back.

It takes me some time to place the Corporal's face with his name in my tired brain; Corporal Gordon. He's called 'Flash' by Two Sections, 'cause of Flash Gordon, following the Army's tradition of stupid bloody nicknames. I guess I got off kind of lightly with Dawesey and Jamesey.

He was the replacement for Saunders in Three Section who was promoted and changed platoons before they were deployed to Nigeria. I think Flash is still part of Three Section, since Kinders' spot in Two Section was taken up by Sergeant King. Kingey I know a little better after a pissed up nights out with the boys after they came back from Kenya, but Flash is new to me.

Passing through passport control following Beck's confident strides, it occurs to me I've never actually been introduced to Flash in person. Thinking on it more, I've only seen him from a distance while attending some regimental do or other where Charles had kept me attached to his arm, and with the Officers and Officers wives instead of mingling with his platoon members following their return from Syria.

I should have had a clue about how odd that particular behaviour had been on his part. It wasn't like Charles to hold himself separate from his men, any more than rank required, and up to that point I'd always been introduced to, or knew personally, most the members of his platoon. I took that to be part of my role as _Captains wife_ , which suited my mother-hen/medic tendencies, and I wanted to know what was going on in Charles' working world.

As a couple, we were not allowed to work in the same chain of command but knowing the people who he worked with and trusted to have his back in any situation, helped me trust that he would come home safe and helped me to hold a closer connection to Charles when we were apart. For me, that was very, very important and he took that away from me.

Looking back, that had been the start of the first in a long line of altered behaviour I missed after he returned from Syria. I'd not recognised so many of the warning signs at the start, and we were so far down the road to destruction by the time I finally understood what was going on with him, that I'd not been able to pull him back from the edge. For that lack of understanding, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to forgive myself. As Charles liked to say, it happened on my watch.

Little and big things all missed. It's only looking back on them out of context that I have some insight. While I'd been caught up in the middle of them I'd been too close to the painful net effects to see clearly.

Some of the signs were so small, like the morning I realised he didn't sing along to the radio when making breakfast anymore. When we'd first got together, he was always singing. This was followed quickly by the bigger realisation that he'd stopped having breakfast with me at all, because work was always more of priority.

Or when he came back from Syria and he couldn't seem to get enough time together in bed and otherwise, to the point where he was sulky and jealous if I spent any time without him outside of work. Then, confusingly, he shifted to the opposite end of the scale when he stopped holding me in bed, then stopped coming to bed at all some nights.

A morning run would end up with him disappearing until late afternoon. Missed Skype calls when I was on tour, or home and he was away. Always an excuse, always a sweet apology and it always happened again.

Shutting himself in his office to all hours with the excuse of work. I'd take him a coffee and find him staring into space. I got used to finding him in rooms with a vacant look in eyes. Recently it had become the new norm, and how fucked up was it that I'd let it become _usual_ for us?

Sammie, now eleven, and not the easiest audience, to be fair, rather like my pre-teen little brothers, complained that his Dad never paid attention when they were out together. Too busy or some such to notice his son's need for attention, yet Regimental matters where always attended to as a first priority. In the end his son spent more time with me than his father when he visited and his reluctancy to visit seem to have been accepted by Charles without comment.

Extra training courses, extra meetings, always a reason to be busy, or worst gone. I asked him once: was he trying to get away from me? Was I the problem? He'd been angry with me for the suggestion. Said I was the only thing in his life that made sense sometimes and he'd stormed out. I'd thought, yes, here was the breakthrough we needed. When he never came to bed that night, I was crushed. The next day I came home to a house that should not have been empty and found myself bursting into tears because the silent rooms left me feeling so desperately lonely that it hurt.

Then he went to Nepal, and Afgan and we lost Elvis. Everything went properly to shit, a thousand times worse than before. He removed himself from me in every way he could, physically, mentally, to the other side of the world when the opportunity presented itself.

The nightmares changed into lucid night terrors, worse than after Syria, but he didn't reach for me at night anymore because he used them as an excuse to sleep separately on a permanent basis.

We went to Elvis' funeral, I stood beside him the whole time, holding his hand, but I might have been stood outside the church or a stranger for all that he seemed to notice. He had his emotional walls up so high, and I could find a way through to him anymore.

After, I had to watch him turning in on himself a little bit more each day, and blamed myself because I couldn't reach him through what I thought was his grief. How wrong had I been?

It got to the point that no-one could reach him, except the job. Not Sam, his parents. There was a blankness in his eyes which only lifted if I provoked him into anger. Of the two of us, he was usually the voice of reason in a fight, me the shouting lunatic. That role reversed until the day he shoved passed me through a doorway I was blocking. I'd accused him of hiding behind his uniform. I don't think he meant to push as hard, but I, not expecting him to make contact ended up hitting the wall behind me.

The look of horror on his face burns me to this day. For the beat of a couple of seconds the emotion was back in his eyes, pained, but there. He was feeling something, and I'd thought; finally we'd connected again. He'd reached out to touch me, his hand coming towards my face.

It went to shit again when I started crying, reaction I guess. He withdrew like I'd electrocuted him. He apologised, of course he always apologised, but didn't come home from barracks for three nights, then announced that his trip to Nigeria had been pulled forward, and he run away to the other side of the world again.

I knew then, this wasn't just about Elvis or the job. The emotional absence, flashes of temper, famine or flood of physical affection, everything pointed to PTSD. I went into research mode, found a quiet moment and present the idea to him.

He'd scoffed, said I was a CMT not a shrink. He was responsible for a platoon of men, didn't I realise he knew what PTSD was, that he'd been trained on this. Why was I telling him how to do his job? He was so spiteful in the way he spoke down to me, I ended up leaving. Hiding in the car in tears, yet again.

I went to his parents, present the same arguments, and they listened. His father said they'd been worried too, promised to speak to him. Held me and told me it would be okay. I'd been so relieved to have someone to share the burden with, but they were wrong.

I went home the next night to find Charles filled with cold fury. We had a flaming row about me breaking his trust and discussing private things within our marriage with his parents. I begged, said I needed him to get help, that this was destroying us. He said I was being dramatic, perhaps I needed help. After all, I had a history of getting too involved; look at what happened in Afgan the first time with Bashira and all of the fall out. He couldn't have said anything more hurtful. He didn't have to tell me I was to blame for him being shot and his injuries. That is a guilt I will always carry.

I'm sure he knew what he was doing, knew just were to aim his words to cause the right kind of sting. It worked, he distracted me. I stormed out losing the argument by retreating to London to my parents' house to nurse my wounds. He managed one night before he turned up, apologised, and delivered me home to Bath then left for last minute, not previously discussed training in Manchester.

This was the game we played. I pushed, he withdrew. I withdrew, he pursued, and then withdrew. We were strangers sharing a house, and I had no idea why. I'd missed so much in the beginning, but as the saying goes hindsight was a nasty bitch and nobodies helping hand.

We're in the main terminal building, heading to the car park when Flash calls me Mrs James, and offers to take my Bergen. I stop myself scowling, barely. I'm in uniform and he's in the wrong. I brush him off, saying that I prefer to carry my own kit and be refer to as Corporal James.

He probably thinks I'm a right stuck-up whats-it, but I'm not willing to lose any influence or respect by being pigeon-holed as the wife in this situation. Flash looks like he might argue, but Colonel Beck shoots him a warning look and he backs down immediately. When Beck turns back towards me, I swear he was hiding a grin.

We get into an Army issue Land Rover driven by a Belizean Private in jungle green rather than desert-cammo. No air-con of course, within minutes I can feel sweat pooling in the small of my back and under my hairline where the bulk of my hair is pinned in a regulation plait topped with the impractical heat produced by my berry.

Flash sits up front with the driver and I sit in the back with Colonel Beck and sort of tune them all out for a while, needing a bit of time in my own head-space.

The sound of Colonel Becks' mobile ringing from beside me makes me snap my attention away from blindly staring out the window.

"Beck." he answers with an authoritative snap that is startlingly different from the soft conversational tone he's being using with me for too many hours. He turns to me, and there's a new urgency in his eyes.

"They've found them?" I say, already knowing from the forming look of relief on his face that it's true. His brisk nod confirms it definitively, and I slump back into the seat with relief.

"Driver, head for Belmopan Hospital!" He turns to me. "He's in bad way, but alive. They're taking him straight to the hospital by helicopter now."

I nod in reply, not trusting my voice to be steady enough to speak.

We pull up outside a white and pink building which looks worryingly primitive from the outside, but inside is filled with the familiar equipment common to hospitals of any worth across the world.

We're taken straight through to an equipped triage area, Colonel Beck's rank, and the presence of Belizean Army Doctor, smooth the way. I'm just another member of Army personnel to the medical staff, attending with my Colonel, not the wife to be lead away and left to wait for news on the sidelines. I'm not sure I could handle that role right now.

The calm of the room is shattered as a stretcher is rushed in through widely swinging double doors. Charles is unconscious and strapped down. He's filthy, with a deathly pallor to his cheeks. His dark curly hair is plastered to his head with sweat. There's a filthy blast bandage wrapped around one leg, and wooden spear sticking out of his upper thigh. The skin above and below the bandage is mottled and clearly infected.

Here were all my worst fears from Captain Andrew's office are brought to life right in front of my eyes. Jesus, what the hell happened out in the jungle?

I watch as the medical staff cut his uniform away from his torso to attached sensors. His chest is exposed, and the skin is the same sickening flushed, pinkish grey hue as his face.

They move his dog-tags out of the way, to side of the sensor pads, and I see it. Identical to the one around my neck, a chain hangs around his neck with two rings attached instead of the one I'm wearing. The broad platinum band of his wedding ring and the thinner, stone encrusted shape of mine lay against his skin.

I don't question why, don't let the tears that are sudden in the back of my throat escape, I just stare at the rings laying side by side on the flushed skin of his chest and yearn for him and the way we used to be together to the extent that it is a physical pain in my own chest.

I take an unconscious step towards the trolley, but Beck holds my arm gently. I come back to myself with a jolt, reminding myself that the grieving wife writhing around inside of me cannot be let loose.

The nurse removes the chain and his dog-tags and Colonel Beck steps forward, taking them from her before passing them to me wordlessly. I slip the smaller ring from the chain and onto my finger before clipping the chain with the larger ring and his dog tags around my neck securely.

Beck's eyes take in the measure of me, from head to foot and back. He's looking for signs that I'm going to lose my shit, but it he won't find them. I have this under control. No one is sending me to any waiting room to weep and wail.

"Be careful of that leg," I say to the nearest Doctor who's examining the spear with gloved fingers before removing the blast bandage. The odour hits me like a sack of bricks. Beck, a seasoned and professional officer, winces. I have to work hard to keep my expression steady.

"He has a historic wound in the lower part of the leg, and metal and pins in place from a previous fracture."

"Medic?" the doctor asks and I nod in reply. He looks to one of the nurses. "Note that down."

Charles suddenly explodes awake, fighting the medical staff who are trying to hold him down to the trolley. His thrashing moves his leg, and he screams out in pain. It takes me a second to realise it's my name he's yelling as he continues to fight.

"Molly! Where's Molly." His head is shaking form side to side, arms pinned to the bed by a doctor as he arches his back. "Molly!"

I rush to his head, using my hands to catch a hold of his face as he struggles.

"Hey, hey now. I'm right here. You need to keep still, Charles, you're gonna hurt yourself worse."

He wrestles one arm away from the nurse and tries to push me away. "You're not Molly, she can't be here. Lane? Where's Lane?"

The movement jars his leg again and he screams out, eyes tight shut and streaming pained tears, teeth clenched. "Fuck!"

I catch his flaying hand, wrapping my fingers around his and raise it my face, leaning over him so he has to see me when he opens his eyes.

"I am here, you nut-bar. You need to open your eyes and see me. I've spent hours on a Hercules with Colonel Beck to get here, straight outta my pit to the airport. You could at least look at me, can't you?"

"Molly? I don't understand…you can't be here…weren't here before…Not Molly…Lane, always Lane…"

"But I am. Thought you knew me better than that, Charles. Why wouldn't I be here when you've gone and done you poor leg in. Again I might add. Need your Medic to fix you back up again, don't you?"

I know it's nonsense coming out of my mouth like word vomit, but he needs to calm down and be still. Banter is about all I have to distract him until I can get through his confusion.

"Molly?"

I feel his fingers tighten around my hand and then tighter pressure as he presses his hand against my cheek. "Molls?"

"I'm here, Charles, I'm here."

"How?"

His dark eyes are focused on my face and he seems more lucid. I let out the breath I've been holding in relief.

"It doesn't matter. I know it hurts, but you need to stay still, okay?"

I drop a kiss onto his forehead. His skin is boiling hot under my lips. I take his hand and press a kiss onto his palm. I don't think it'll make any difference to has confusion but it makes me feel better for having the physical connection. Now released by the medical staff, his other hand comes up to catch my shoulder then drops to his neck, feeling for something

"It's here, I have it."

I pull the chain out from my uniform, showing him his ring on the chain. His eyes follow the movement of my hand, focusing on my fingers.

"You're wearing it again."

"I went looking for it the next day. Nearly had a fit when I couldn't find it. Never meant for you to run off to Belize with it. Thank you for looking after it for me."

The nurse tries to take Charles' arm, to insert a drip, but he jerks it away with something akin to a growling noise.

"Come on, stop that. She needs to put you on a drip. You've got a nasty infection. They're trying to get you ready for surgery." I soothe in the same sing-song medic voice, I was using early. "Stop being a baby and keep still."

He turns to the nurse again, eyes belligerent. I push on his arm and he lets me lay it flat against the trolley mattress, palm up, but he's still glaring at the nurse warily. Faced with his fever confused hostility she looks worried to touch him again.

"Hey," I say softly, "Forget about that for now, look at me, okay?" He turns obediently towards me and the nurse begins busily setting up a drip with the necessary tubing and fluids.

Still holding onto my hand, his fingers find the wedding ring on my finger, and fidget with it. The familiar gesture makes me smile unexpectedly.

"That's mine, get your own." I tease.

I'm trying to joke, but his eyes glaze with tears with more emotion in them than I've seen in months. It makes the tears that I've been holding back, prickle the corner of my eyes and well despite my best efforts to hold them back.

I pull the chain over my head, and unclip it and slip the ring off it and onto his ring finger, dropping a kiss onto his knuckle for reassurance. Then repeat with my engagement before wrapping our fingers together again. "There you go. A matched set and all complete."

"Not sure I've been much of a husband lately to deserve it," he says in a choked voice. "I know you're not really here, but how can you forgive me for that? When I get home and see you, how are you ever going to forgive me?"

I hold his face in my hands, crouching down so we are at eye level with each other.

"I know things are a bit muddled just now, but I am really here. I came with Colonel Beck." I point. "Look, do you see him?"

Charles' eyes follow the path to were I'm looking and Colonel Beck comes closer briefly so he can see him clearly.

"James, it's good to see you back safe."

Charles' eyes shift back to me. "I don't think you'd hallucinate Colonel Beck now, would you?"

"Molls?"

"I'm here, I promise. I'm sorry I let you get so lost, so sorry."

I press my lips to his, uncaring of our audience, simply needing the reassurance, because this is all my fucking fault. His lips move under mine, familiar and warm.

I pull back, but stay close, so we're practically forehead to forehead.

"None of that matters just now, okay? I just need you to keep still, let the Doctors fix you up. We'll worry about the rest later."

His hand comes to my shoulder. "You'll be here after?"

"I promise. Where else would I be?"

"Come here, let me see you properly. I've missed you."

He pulls me closer, his grip surprisingly strong. I'm onto him. I know what he's doing.

"Enough of that. This isn't a-last-thing-you-see moment, okay? You mustn't think like that."

He swallows then nods

The Doctor, who's working on his leg, looks up, catching my gaze pointedly. It times to let him go.

"I think you're ready to go to theatre. I'll be here when you get back, okay?" I let go of his hand.

"Molly!"

There's panic in his voice when he says my name as his hand flies out to grab my shoulder.

"I'm still here, Charles." I say, leaning over him again.

His hand slides into the hair at the back of my neck, pulling me down to his lips. We kiss briefly, and I realise with a rush of more tears that these few moments have been the first time in maybe six months, if not more, that he's sought any kind of affectionate contact.

"I sorry." he murmurs against my lips between kisses. "I'm sorry" –another kiss–"I'm sorry. I love you."

"I love you, too." I pull back, because one of us has to and watch as an oxygen mask is placed over his face and his trolley is wheeled from the room.


	3. Chapter Three

As ever, thank you for the reviews.

* * *

 **Chapter Three - Confessions**

With Charles taken off to surgery, the triage area empties out. Beck and a hospital manager of some kind start a conversation which seems very deferential on the part of the manager. When Beck mentions Brigadier McFail's name, the hospital manager simpers, leaving me with impression we are getting V.I.P. treatment.

We're eventually shown to a hospital room to which Charles will be returned once he is out of theatre. It's a pleasant enough space with large windows down one wall looking out onto a green lawn and carpark in the distance. In offensive abstract art pictures hangs on the walls, and an air conditioning unit rumbles quietly in the background.

Two chairs are placed by the standard issue hospital bed and a sofa and small table sit at the opposite end of the room. I'm guessing this accommodation is a bit more on the posh nob client end of the scale.

I eye up the sofa, and decide it is likely to be my base for the next couple of days and nights. Charles has a heavy infection to fight off before they would contemplate moving him back to the UK. There's a bleedin' basket full of potential problems that could come up besides the original fracture and wound infection. That thought brings up a whole other list of anxieties that I don't want to explore right now.

I drag my berry off my head because it's annoying me suddenly and drop it and my Bergen down beside the sofa. Turning, I find Beck looking at me with the same quiet watchfulness he's used before, and I know he's assessing me.

"How are you doing, Dawes?"

I'm not sure how to answer because the truth is likely to get me packed off home on the next Hercules out of here. I settle of a suitably bland answer.

"Fine, Sir." Then qualify it because I can see his growing scepticism. "It's difficult to see him so hurt, I'm not gonna lie, but I'm doing okay, all things considered."

"I wouldn't have brought you out here if I didn't think you could cope, Dawes." he replies with a smile. "We both know you're strong enough to get you both through this."

"Yeah, tough as nails me, Sir." I laugh, then say more quietly. "I hope your right, because he got a lot to get passed."

A scrub clad nurse appears at the door, asking if we want anything to drink.

"Coffee for me, please." Beck looks toward me.

"The same, please."

He indicates with his hand that I should sit on the sofa. I sink down onto the supportive softness with a grateful groan. It's been a long time since we left the UK and the Army sure as hell don't kit the Hercules out with comfort in mind.

Beck moves one of the chairs from beside the bed to opposite the sofa, then sits as the nurse returns with a cafetiere of coffee, which smells amazing, and the usual accompaniments for the drink including biscuits. She lays it down on the small table and leaves.

I reach for the cafetiere eagerly, pushing the plunger slowly and enjoying the way the coffee smell deepens.

"So, he finally got you to drink coffee?" Beck says with amusement.

I look to him questioningly, unsure how he would know such a detail.

"Charles always said you were a tea drinker. Believe it or not, Officers talk, too."

"I suppose I've live too long with a coffee snob not to have picked up his habits. He introduced me to Vanilla latte and I was a convert after that. I'm still fond of tea, though."

I push the cafetiere towards Beck, and he indicates that I should pour for us both.

"Milk? Sugar?"

"No, black is fine for me." He's Like Charles using it as his officers' on-the-go energy drink of choice because the niceties of milk and sugar aren't always available where the job takes them.

I half fill my cup, then add almost the same amount of milk and two sugars for good measure. It not quite a proper latte but it will do.

It's going to be a lot of hours before Charles comes out of theatre, and I'm not sure whether Beck is going to stay because he feels he needs to, or whether I should be diplomatically chasing him out of here. For that matter, I'm not even sure what his expectations are of my role when Charles is back. Will I be allowed to stay, or have to report to barracks? I have no idea.

I do know I'm gonna argue against the barracks option if it comes up. I promised I would be here when he got back. Nothing short of being dragged out of here is going to stop me following through on that.

When Beck stretches out his long legs and settles himself more comfortably in the chair, I'm pretty sure that his intention is to stay. He pushes the plate of biscuits towards me as I shake my head. I'm really not interested in food right now.

"That wasn't a request, Dawes, you haven't eaten in hours."

With an eye roll that I don't quite manage to catch, and which he's nice enough to ignore, I pick up a biscuit, put it in my mouth and chew.

We sit in silence while he watches me eat two more biscuits until he gives me a nod of approval and helps himself to a biscuit. It's getting dark outside, and I can see the headlights of cars driving on the road at the far side of the car park, a snake of white and red lights as people head home.

Beck seems to be more interested in using the coffee to warm his hands than as drink. I don't blame him. Even mixed with milk and sugar it's not the best brew I've ever had. I guess that might be another side effect of living with a coffee snob, I'm used to a better-quality brew. Thinking about Charles and his coffee habits makes me want to smile. It's a safe memory to lose myself in for a while.

The way we'd playfully fight over the coffee machine in the mornings. Charles complaining that I ruined my drink by drowning it in milk. Yet he'd still upgraded his original Nespresso machine to one which made lattes when he found out how much I liked them. He'd called it a house warming gift for the first little house we'd rented together in Aldershot, but I knew he'd bought it for me.

We'd been so happy back then. I missed how easy just being together had been. Missed it so much it physically hurt. Coffee sloshes over the back of my hand, and I realise my hands are shaking rather badly.

Beck snaps me out of my thoughts by starting to talk suddenly. His tone is conversational, and his attention mostly on the coffee cup in his hands rather than towards me. I quickly put my cup down on the table, trying to cover up my trembling.

"My wife, Emily, was Doctor in RAMC, did you know that? Captain Beck, RAMC. She's in reserves now and works for the NHS. Once the twins the born, she decided it was time to put down roots outside of the Army."

I did actually. I've only really met her a couple of times. Our wedding was when we'd talked the most. My memory of her was that was lovely. She was a small, warm, blond, who clearly adored her husband, liked wild swimming and boring people about her two little girls – her words, not mine. I guess those girls must be getting much bigger now.

"She was based at Bastion during Herrick 14, and got caught up in the Talban attack on the Camp. I was back in the UK with regiment after a tour when the news came in about the Talban attack.

"I've never been more terrified in my life that she wasn't going to come home when I heard. She did, thankfully. Whole and complete and stronger than I'd seen her in a long while."

The tone of his voice has changed, like this story is deeply personal. I'm not really sure that I should be hearing this, or why I'm being involved in Colonel Beck's version of story time.

"She sent me divorce papers at the end of the first week that she got back. That's when I realised what damaged I done to my wife through my denial."

He's looking straight at me very pointedly. There's pain in his eyes. True pain

"Sir, I…" I say awkwardly, unsure where he's going with this and, to be honest, finding the subject of a broken marriage cutting a little too close to some of my own fears.

"I know you're wondering why I telling you this. Can you please trust I have my reasons? I need you to listen and understand. Can you do that for me?"

I nod shakily

"I've been involved in three IED incidents in my career. The first was when I watched a close friend red misted in front of his platoon stepping on a roadside bomb. The second and third involved vehicles being blown up. On the third occasion I was travelling inside of the Mastiff at the time.

"It was rather like what I'd imagine clothes in a washing machine experience. Noisy, jarring and then completely silent. The silence is the worst part, because you realise then how hurt or dead the other people who are in there with you must be. You're glad when you hear groans and swearing.

"I walked away from each incident with minimal physical injuries and consider myself a lucky bastard each time. Mentally, it was a different story.

"I told myself I'd coped each time. That I wasn't going to let it into my home life. Of course, I was being a fool. I had many of the classic symptoms of PTSD, sometimes mildly, sometimes not so.

"After the third time, it got much worse. Nightmares, struggling to connect with people at home. My main solution was sleeping as little as possible and drinking, far, far too much.

"I told myself, I was doing what I needed to get through. Using the necessary methods until the feelings were back under control."

"On my next Afgan tour I meet a Captain from the Royal Engineers who'd been travelling in the same vehicle as me when it hit the IED. She'd just returned after months of rehab, and I thought at the time, here was somebody I could talk with, somebody who would understand the demons in my head.

"I was wrong, she was my trigger, not my cure as much as I was hers. We were catastrophically drawn together for the same reasons. My behaviours escalated. Insomnia, night terrors, drinking, and I developed an infatuation. She was no better, and also married.

"We almost got to a point of no return were platonic infatuation tipped over into something physical, but a conversation with one of my Officers pulled me up and made me face the line of fire that I was following to destruction. Emily's divorce papers did the rest.

"The officer said, did I realise how much I had to lose if I didn't admit that I needed help. That he admired me for the soldier I'd been before my struggles, but that he couldn't turn a blind-eye to my self-destruction much longer. He was worried that lives were at risk. How would I council one of my troops suffering with PTSD. To think of that conversation and then have it with myself.

"If you can't do that, respectfully Sir, I will have to go to Colonel. His exact words."

"Charles."

"Yes. When he was a rather green, but very perceptive newly promoted Captain. He's only grown in his abilities as an officer since. He saved my career, marriage. Life, I think if I'd continued down the same path of destruction."

"I'm telling you this, so you can understand that you can trust me with this, Molly. I understand what he's going through."

"The Brigadier never authorised me to travel, did he?" I say, understanding now why I'm here.

"No. It would be a bit below his level of notice, and not really recognised Army protocol in these situations. It's very much within my remit, however."

"He's been struggling for a while, hasn't he?"

I watch him for several minutes. Chewing on my bottom lip while trying to decide if this was the right choice, or whether I was opening the door to more problems. Charles betrayed reaction when I spoke to his parents about his behaviour springs to mind and the memory is painful. His accusations of betrayal are branded on my brain. The words are tumbling out of my mouth before I even realised I'd made a decision to speak.

"I didn't notice at first, but he wasn't right when he first came back from Syria. It's only gotten worse since. I don't know why, he's never been willing to open up to me. When Elvis – Captain Harte– died it got so much worse. I know he blames himself for Elvis's death."

"That's what I'd thought. His After-Action reports show some worrying elements. Slips in judgement, failure to assert authority, hesitation to make decisions."

He looks at me intently, like he's waiting for me to catch up. With a sinking heart I know what he wants me to realise.

Georgie and Georgie's rather gang ho behaviour since Kenya. We were friends via her dating Elvis before the wedding that wasn't, but I wouldn't say particularly close since. Understandable, really. I'm the wife of Elvis's best friend and former best-man. I wouldn't have pushed for the friendship to deepen in her circumstances either.

However, I'd piece together what happened from Two Section gossip. Less so Charles, but before he'd been so distant, she'd still come up in conversation occasionally. Including some of his frustrations with what he'd called her single-mindedness. I know he'd been concerned about it escalating after Kenya."

"Slips of authority, you're talking about Corporal Lane."

There's a lump in my throat that threatens tears to follow, and I realise I'm digging my fingers into my palm tight enough for it to be painful. Is he trying to say that Charles has formed an attachment like he did?

"You're saying she's his trigger, as the RE Captain was yours?" I say, voice flat.

She's Charles' Royal Engineers Captain. They've bonded over loss, the loss of Elvis. For fucks sake, how fucking blind have I been?

I don't look up to catch Colonel Beck's expression, I think his pity might just finally break me.

His hand touches mine, straightening out my clenched fingers and holding them in a cool, firm grip. I look up and find him smiling at me reassuringly.

"One thing about being an officer is that you have to maintain a certain amount of distance from the troops we lead. It's necessary, but we do talk, to each other, _a lot_. When Charles told me that you and he had formed an attachment and offered to resign his commission I knew then that you and he were the real deal. That man of yours has been Army to the core for as long as I've ever known him, and that's a long time now.

"That belief has never changed. I've had many a Mess meal or Ops Tent conversation with Charles in our time in the regiment which involved you. Your success and home life, the latest Dawesism, as he calls then, that you'd have put into an email, or Skype call. You're the centre of his world."

"How–" I choke on the words, needing to take a breath before continuing. "How can you say that if you believe he has an attraction to Georgie?"

"You're misunderstanding, Molly, I'm sorry. It's not about attraction and I don't believe it's gotten physical, it about misdirection of emotion. If he's like I was, he can't connect with you or his home life, so he's looking for a connection anywhere. Ultimately he's looking for a connection with you."

"I don't understand." I say, frustrated with myself.

"Corporal Lane isn't his trigger, Molly, but I suspect her connection to Captain Harte _has_ complicated things with Charles."

"Then what is his trigger?"

"You right when you said it started in Syria." He reaches into his bag and pulls out a report and hands it to me. "You need to read this. I think this is where the trauma that set off his PTSD happened. I can't be sure, but I know him well enough to see it is highly probable.

"I can't know how it's manifested itself specifically or if it's pulled in other traumas such as his shooting. Only Charles can answer that."

"I need you to read that report, and I'll answer any question you have after. I think you deserve to understand what might be going on in your husband's head before you decide what to do next."

I take the folder and hold it on my lap as he stands.

"You're leaving?" I ask, a little panicky at the thought all of a sudden.

"I think you need some time to absorb what's in that report. I'm going to get some air and find us some proper food. You'll be okay?" He pats my hand that is clenched around the paper folder with a death grip.

"Yes," I say quickly, "but can I ask one thing, please, Sir?"

"Of course."

"At our wedding, you and your wife seemed very happy, but you said–"

"That she issued me with divorce papers? She did. That's the thing with people and the uniform, we're all human underneath and we all respond to pressure differently. Emily returned from Afgan after coming face to face with her own mortality and what she took away from that experience was that life was too short to stay with a husband who didn't show her any affection anymore and who controlled his own emotions from the bottom of a bottle of spirits.

"I faced the same realisation and coped by suppressing it. Two different people, two reactions."

"After the divorce papers and Charles' conversation with me, I went to my CO and confessed I was mentally drowning and didn't believe I was safe to continue my operational duties.

"When I got home I begged Emily to speak to me. When she agreed I broke down and everything I'd been holding onto just came out. I'm not going to lie, it took a lot of time. We had counselling. Separately and together. We're okay now."

I look up at Beck with wet eyes and a whole world of doubt pressing down on my chest.

"Before he left I gave him my wedding ring and told him I needed him to leave me if he wouldn't get help. Look how well that ended. He left and went to the other side of the world. I'm only here now because of a fluky accident and you."

Our last conversation in the UK comes back to me in painful technicolour . After another work related disappearing act when he'd promised to be home because I had news, I pushed for a fight.

The words we'd thrown at each other that night. The emotional bruises we inflected on each other. I hate to think of the part I'd played in that, because knowing somebody so intimately from within the bounds of a formerly close and emotionally nurturing marriage meant we knew each other's vulnerabilities. That's the danger of letting somebody inside of you, heart and soul, they know how to hurt with so much more accuracy than a stranger.

Me passionate and on fire with hurt, him hollow eyed and Icey calm we battered words at each other from opposite ends of the living room. Out of my head with rage, I'd said perhaps Smurf would have been a better choice. He'd said he'd have still died, but maybe I would have preferred a dead husband to a broken one.

I'd said he was dying in front of me, so what was the difference then stormed out only to return an hour later projecting his detachment and emotional absence instead of the rage that I'd used earlier. I presented him with my wedding ring dry-eyed and without strong emotion and told him that if he couldn't find the strength to get help, then he needed to leave me.

I pressed my hands into my eyes, tears spilling down my cheeks, because I realise, now, what I missed in the middle of nuclear war zone I'd started in my own home and I hate myself for it. He'd admitted he was broken, for the first time, right in front of me and I'd missed it.

Beck is talking again, and I force myself to listen, squashing down my rising panic as I consider what further damage I've caused because I wasn't available to him when he reached out, however, tentative with an admission of vulnerability.

"He went to the other side of the world with your ring hanging around his neck. Doesn't that say something to you about his feelings? I know I've dropped a lot on you, Molly, but I think if you read the report, and take a breath, things might be clearer and that might help."

I take a deep breath. I'm about as far away from okay as I've ever been in my life, but I still need to get a hold on my emotions. If Beck needs me to read this report, I can do that because I need a little hope of some light in the darkness that I'm balancing on the edge of.

"I will, Sir, if you think I need to."

He smiles at me reassuringly. "I think we're passed Sir, don't you? It's Tom, for the time being. Read the report, I'll be back in a while."

 **~~o00o~~**

Her name is Private Louisa McNeil. She's medic just out of training. Dark haired, small, pretty. From the photo on her personal file, which should have been the usual convict number 325 type passport photo, and her inappropriate smile, I think she had spirit. Remind me of anyone? Yes, depressingly it did. He certainly had a type and apparently that type was dark haired medics.

I'm not gonna lie, that fact stung like further salt on the wound following the revelations about Georgie, but I made myself read the file further, trying to understood what Colonel Beck had meant.

She was part of a Scottish regiment that were deployed alongside Charles' regiment on refugee assistance in Syria. They were travelling in convey back to barracks from a refugee camp. Charles had been asked to take charge as the normal CO was ill. In the lead vehicle of a group of three, Charles' truck turned a corner through a village when a child pushing a cart with sacks crossed in front of middle truck and denoted a vest, taking out the truck and the troops inside.

Contrary to Charles' instructions to take cover until the scene had been secured, Private McNeil, in the third vehicle, ran to the scene and tried to provide aid to her comrades. I doubt I would have done any different.

She was taken out by a sniper from a nearby building.

Nineteen years old, almost the same age I was when we met on the tarmac at Brize Norton. She bled out under his hands as he tried to provide first aid, and he never mentioned one word of this to me. He came back from Syria and experienced nightmares, screaming out in the night for me, and I never understood why he would never talk to me about it. Seems stupidly clear now, I was the nightmare.

What I'd taken to be intense possessiveness, and an unusual need to be with me constantly, had been another symptom, hyper-vigilance and I'd been what he was focused on protecting.

There was an incident weeks later in a park near our house. We'd gone for walk on a lovely sunny Monday afternoon. A gardener working on some flower beds had knocked over a wheelbarrow onto the path ahead of us. Charles pulled me to the ground and covered me with his body. Clear as day, I could remember his gasped breathes and trembling, how his body weight held me to the tarmac path below us. His voice gasping out that he had me, it would be okay, he wasn't going to let it happen again.

It took many minutes of me stroking his face and talking to him before he came back to himself from wherever he'd been inside his head. He'd refused to discuss it afterwards, and I'd let him keep his silence. I'd been a bloody idiot.

His behaviour escalated quickly after that with an inability to let me out of his sight without arguments, jealous sulking and anxiety. If I didn't return a call immediately, or if returned late from being out without him, he became anxious.

Charles was always physically affectionate with me before, but after Syria, it was like he craved to touch me constantly. Sexually he become more intense, bordering on a desperate sort of passionate aggressiveness, never forced or unwelcome, but very different to our normal loving making.

Thinking back with new eyes, he'd also started isolating me from his working life, even though I had connections to it through the original members of Two Section. This was why I didn't know Flash at all and Kingey only a little.

Charles had been ring fencing his home and working worlds. I'm not sure I understand why entirely, even now, but the behaviour was there clear as day now that I think back on it. At the same time, he'd taken a pushy sort of interest in my own work, arguing hard to persuade me to pursue UK based placements. This I had indulged somewhat, but when he'd thrown a fit bout me joining an Ebola task force, my resentment of his interference had started to take root and gotten stronger over time. That hadn't help with the distance that started to grow between us.

The fifth time I returned to Afgan when he was in Nigeria had been done out of spite. I had to own that one. My CO had been pushing for me to further my career towards Senior CMT or a nursing qualification. Captain Andrews had insisted that a Military Cross holder should be aiming higher career wise than Corporal. Both those opportunities would have been UK based and exactly what Charles wanted, but I took the opposite route with a short tour in Afgan. I'd left him, the way he'd been leaving me. But when I'd left him out of anger, I also left him to drown on his own.

Was I then the one to push him towards Georgie initially, I wonder. Possibly not, I think Elvis's death, his guilt and a need to protect somebody who was important to his best friend was probably the starting point. PTSD probably triggered the rest, my dramatic threats about leave me or get help couldn't have helped anything.

I shut the report and throw it down on the coffee table like it was burning me. The truth seemed so fucking obvious now. I was up on my feet and pacing around the room because the emotions popping up in me needed me to move to physical express my upset before I exploded. But I don't have time to lose it right now, so I hold it together and feel the cloak of detachment drift down over me again. I'm back looking at the world through the distorted glass again. It's weirdly comforting.

The simple brutal truth is that I'm his trigger and what sort of a shit fucking wife and medic am I to have missed it all? Somehow, somewhere in side of Charles' mind I'd become a source of anxiety. He couldn't connect with me at home, so he'd been reaching out for the wrong connections elsewhere. What was it Beck had said? It wasn't about physical attraction, it was about mis-directed emotion.

But what if Beck was wrong, and they had gone further than thoughts and words. Could I live with that? Move on? I honestly don't know and it's frightening to have no idea of where to go next with this. The last year has cost me a lot I terms of confidence and self-esteem. I'm not sure how much resilience I have left for what comes next.

I stop by the window. It's dark outside, and all I can see is my own reflection in the dark glass. I look hollowing eyed and strung out. A mess, all in all. It's weird the way I'm managing to look at the reflection of myself unwinding with such detachment

I recognise I should be feeling more than the sort of muted sadness that I feel at the moment. Anger, hurt, loss. There are many emotions that I could and should be feeling. I can't open the door to that yet. I need to see him out of theatre and infection free before I can indulge myself with a breakdown, there's time enough, and that's a slightly frightening thought. If I let myself break to feel all that I should, will I manage to glued myself back together again?

Beck enters the room again, and I turn to face him worried to find that I appear to be trembling, despite my best endeavour to feel nothing. He looks at me with the same gentle compassion that he showed on the plane and it breaks me, finally. This man knows exactly what's running through my head and I have no defence against that. I'm emotionally naked in front of him.

He steps towards me quickly and like a puppet with cut strings I start to fall to the floor until I'm scooped up and held. I wail my pain against his camouflage covered chest until I haven't got any more tears to cry. In that shared pain lies my admission of mea culpa.

* * *

 _If you want some more tunes for this, you could try:- Amy Wadge – Faith's Song, Dean Lewis – Lose My Mind, Claire Guerreso – Ashes. All find-able on YouTube._


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four – Denial and Other Ways of Hiding**

It would appear I fell asleep and, disturbingly, I have no memory of it. The last I do remember was sitting on the sofa drinking a bottle of water after my sob-fest while Beck left to rustle us up some coffee. I'm now alone, lying on the sofa with a blanket across my shoulders and the room is in darkness.

I guess I ran of energy. I've had it happen before on tour. It's that point when you can finally let go in a moment of safety and the first soft surface and it's lights out and good night Vienna, as my Dad would say. Could have done without passing out in front of a Colonel, right enough.

Looking at my watch, I've been out for maybe two hours. Charles hasn't returned from theatre yet, which is not unexpected. I sit up and reach for my phone, using the light to find the light switch on the wall. The room fills will stark white light and I wince. It stings both my eyes and my head, adding to the annoyance of the slow thump, thump of a headache which is pounding behind my eyeballs. It feels a bit like having a hangover without having the fun before hand.

There's a covered plate of food on the coffee table with a note from Beck telling me he's returned to barracks and will catch up with me in the morning. His mobile number is added at the bottom with the words 'call me, if you need anything'. The anything is underline several times. The blue fountain pen ink lines underlining the words both amuse and comfort me. Being a good little soldier, and because I recognise it is both a privilege and valuable to have his personal mobile number, I add it carefully to the contact list on my phone.

My bladder is rather loudly reminding me that it's been a while since I paid attention to that particular need, so I drag myself to the hospital room's connecting bathroom. What greets me in the mirror while I'm washing my hands isn't a pretty site. I look wrecked. Pale face, red rimmed eyes, shadows underneath like bruises. My hair has long since mostly parted company with its regulations style. If I met me, looking like this, I'd be worried. Yet all I feel is detached. Like am looking at the reflection of a stranger or a character from a movie or TV programme.

The right thing to do in these circumstances is fix it, so I mechanically wash my face, brush and sort my hair back into its earlier style and brush my teeth. It's not a shower and eight hours of sleep, but it's enough. The rest can wait.

I pick at the chicken salad that's been left out for me. My stomach isn't entirely grateful for the effort. It tastes like sawdust anyway, but I fill the fork, chew and swallow because it's been a long while since I last eat properly and there's no way can afford for me to get sick as well.

The clock on the wall feels like it's taking the piss by running extra slow time is dragging so much. I know that's a load of guff, but it easier to think that way than admit there will come a point when his return from surgery is taking too long.

Distraction is the name of my next game, so I pull out my phone and switch off plane mode. Several texts ping in straight away. The first being from Brains asking how the Bossman is and if I'm doing okay. He explains that Beck apparently briefed Two Section once they were back in barracks regarding Charles' status, and that I am in the country. Sweetheart that he is, Brains finished by asking if I need anything, and says he will try to visit.

Another quickly arrives from Fingers, who's apparently in the UK and has heard about the accident. There are more from Mansfield, Jacs and Dangles all checking in and asking for updates.

Even Kinders, who's in another platoon now, texted. It's clear to me that the Regimental and Two Sections jungle drums have been banging away loudly with the help of the ever-efficient Colonel Beck. It's a comforting to know people are thinking of us and it's possible I might need to work passed a lump in my throat when I realise how much I'm missing my old Section.

I haven't received anything from Georgie, which I'm try to tell myself isn't a tell of anything more going on. Using-my-nut-me says she's been through an exhausting experience and is probably in her pit. Insecure-and-full-of-ideas-me wonders if she's avoiding me for other reasons.

To be honest, I try to shut up both voices in my head. I don't have energy for either of them, and Georgie is the last thing I want to think about until everything is calmer. If ever there was a stick it in a box, and move on moment, this was it. There would be time enough for dealing with the contents later. Subject shoved aside, I go back to staring at the clock and willing it to move faster.

 **ooOOoo**

I'm back sat on the sofa staring out of the dark window when there's a knock at the door. The same Army Doctor who was one of the team that met Charles in the triage area enters with a reassuring smile as I bolt to my feet. In beautifully welcomed accented English he tells me that the operation went well regarding stabilising the leg.

They're most concerned with the infection and his fever. The rest is a waiting game. He won't be moved back to the UK until the infection is under control and will be kept sedated and on heavy duty antibiotics to help his body ahead of the fire fight that his immune system is waging.

I'm standing in the doorway staring down the dark corridor like a spare part when then eventually bring him back from Recovery twenty too fucking long minutes later. The relief that floods me when I see him again almost sends me to the floor. I make myself stay back and out of the way, stiff backed, locked knees and wordlessly clinging onto the back of one of the chairs as he is transferred to the bed, drips and monitors set-up and the Doctor exits leaving behind one nurse.

She moves a trolley closer to the bed which contains supplies ready to give him a washdown. It's then that I find my voice. It's cracked and pained, quiet and pleading; the wife in me being allowed to speak at last.

"Can I help?" I step forward and grasp his hand as she stands on the opposite side of the bed. I only realise I'm holding his left hand with my own when I see her studying our fingers, and the matched wedding rings. "I just want to help make him more comfortable, please."

"You are Mrs James?" she asks.

"Yes, I'm Molly, Molly James."

She smiles, holding out a clean cotton cloth, to me, gloves and apron. "I'm Nurse Duran, you can call me Angeli. Well, when not Doctors are around, okay Molly?"

The smile that crosses my face is as much about relief as it is a thank you. "Fine, as long as you call me Corporal James if any Colonels turn up, deal?"

She giggles softly. "I think I can remember that. Let me get another bowl of water and we can get started."

We work quickly and quietly, cleaning the sweat and dirt from his body and hair. Angeli applies antiseptic ointment to various, cuts, scrapes and bug bites. He's leg is clean already with a fresh dressing covering the wound.

I take a moment to assess him. He's still long and lean with hard muscled but I can see he's lost weight since we last shared a bed. The hollows by his hip bones and under his cheek bones are far more pronounced than I remember.

Seeing him laid out, unconscious and vulnerable brings a surge of such protective love alive in me that I want to phone Beck up and demand that he be flown home now or do something even more dramatic like throw my body over his, and cover him to allow no one near, like a lioness protecting a cub.

My irrational, primitive and intense need to simply protect him is followed quickly by the realisation that I'm being a bit of a nutbar.

If Angeli notices the hitch in my breathing or the way my hands have stopped moving the wash cloth across his shoulder and arm, she doesn't show any signs, instead letting me have my inner meltdown without comment or hesitation in her own washing.

I make a pact with myself here and now. Whatever happens. Whether we end up together or not, I'm going to love this man to best of my ability. Protect him from himself, if necessary and if loving him means walking away to see him whole again, I will do that. For him, for us, because the love we had together and what he's brought into my life when things were good between us, deserves that end, even if there is no future. I love this man with my whole heart and will always love him in some way until my end.

I'm ready now, for what comes next. I wasn't before. I will be now.

I finish washing him, and Angeli meets my eyes with an unspoken question.

I answer with words. "I'm okay."

Because I can do this. Whatever is thrown at me, I can do this. For him.

We change the sheets and straighten the bed. Angeli updates his chart, and with a warm squeeze to one of my hands leaves the room. It suddenly seems oppressively silent, making the sound of my own heartbeat thumping away in my ears feel too loud.

One muted light is left on leaving Charles' naked, fever flushed torso and face in a soft halo of light as he lies asleep propped up in bed with a sheet and thin blanket covering him from mid torso down. The monitors by the bed show the reassuring steady beat of his heart and a nasal canula is providing oxygen via clear tubing the curves across either side of his face from his nose. The site is too familiar.

It reminds me of how he looked in the hospital in Birmingham while I waited through the longest night of my night with Smurf. That was the beginning of us. How much had we gained, loved and lost since then?

Lovely Smurf, who'd been generous enough set aside his own feelings for me and hold me while I waited for a man who wasn't him to wake up so that we could start a life together.

I didn't manage to save him either. That thought has me tightening my hand around Charles' limp hand with a quiet sob of distress.

I miss them both, almost in the same way and I know how fucked up that is. There's a living breathing man in front of me. I'm touching his face and holding his hand and can still feel the emotional distance between us. Present, but absent. Close but miles away. I've no idea how to explain it properly in my nut, but the heavy weight of the unclassifiable emotion that's drowning me feels like grief.

I brush the hair back from his forehead. Damp in some places, his hair is already springing back into its familiar curls as it is slightly longer than he'd normally have it considering he's just gone on tour. It was one of our private jokes, his pre and post tour hair styles, and the way his mother always complained when it was cut regulations length because the curls were tamed.

Angeli returns to the room with a jug of water and glasses, a mug of hot drink and biscuits. All are laid down on a bedside cabinet and she pulls a chair closer to the side of the bed and urges me to sit. To be honest, it hadn't even registered that I was still standing.

The mug is put into my hand, and I'm chased to drink with a hand gesture and smile. Hot tea, sweet and strong flows down my throat, warm and welcome.

"My husband was a sergeant in the British army. His mother is from Belize his father from London. He always said the Army runs on sweet tea. The biscuits are my contribution" She smiles warmly. "He's retired now, still love his tea though.

"You're Colonel says we are to look after you like you're priceless. I assume your husband is a very important man, but you are important to your Colonel, no?"

She's looking at my rumbled uniform as though it might provide some answers, and unexpectantly I feel heat flushing my cheeks. I might actually be bleedin' blushing.

"My husband is a Captain in Colonel Becks regiment. I guess that makes him important, to the Army." I mutter, not sure what else to say, to be honest.

"Probably shouldn't have repeated that." She laughs delighted by my reaction for some reason. "I'll leave you, if you need anything, just ask. Someone will be at the Nurse's Station down the corridor and we'll be in an out to check on your husband, and you."

And then we're alone. Him, me, the halo of light and the machines by the bed that confirm he survived.

 **ooOOoo**

I wake with a start to the feeling of the warm weight of his hand laid against my neck and cheek. I'm slumped over in the chair with my head and upper body on the mattress. He's still out of it, face flushed and damp with sweat but peaceful for all that.

I straighten, moving his hand gently so it's laying by his side. It's still dark and the headache has gone to be replaced by a crick in my neck that eases slightly when I stretch with a satisfying crack of bone against bone.

My phone, on silent, buzzes against the surface of the bedside cabinet. It's a text from Charles' parents sending their love and Sam's and asking me for an update when I have a chance.

I'm guessing Colonel Beck during his busy bunny activities has remembered to call them when I failed to even think of it. I feel awful. I should have considered their needs and Sammy's, but it's done now. All I can do is call them back quickly and make amends.

A quick Google confirms that it will be about 8 in the morning in the UK if I phone now, but my phones is on its last bar battery wise, so I hope Jacs remembered to pack a charger. While I'm thinking about that, the screen flicks to black, and that's the end of that.

"Shit."

Charles is still peaceful, the gentle rise and fall of his chest and muted bleeps from the monitor by the bed confirming what the anxiousness inside needs me to confirm before I leave him to search my Bergen.

I press my lips to his forehead and whisper, "I'll only be gone a minute."

Rummaging in my Bergen, I strike gold because Jackie Nesbitt is a goddess amongst women. She not only packed a charger but a travel adapter. There's a bottle her favourite wine and a box of Thornton's Continentals coming her way when I get home, or via Amazon, depending on which I get to first.

I plug the mobile into charge by the sofa and leave the room thinking that I might be better to ask to use a phone at the Nurse's Station because it's gonna take my battered little iPhone 6 a while until it holds enough juice to work again. Charles had been threatening to replace it for my birthday before we lost Elvis, but then things like birthdays and anniversaries hadn't meant much since and I'd never bothered to replace it. A phone call on my birthday when I'd been in Afgan hadn't meant much either, but I shove that thought aside rapidly. What's the point of lingering on it? It's done now.

Angeli passes me in the corridor and confirms that I'm okay to help myself to the phone, and that she'll wait with Charles while she finishes his obs until I get back.

ooOOoo

As I'm hanging up the phone, a figure looms by me in the dark, and I jump as voice says in a loud stage whisper, "Well, well, if it isn't my favourite CMT, Card-sharking, Tequila queen."

I turnaround fast enough to wobble slightly and muscular arm comes out to steady me as I look up into the shit eating grin on the face of Captain McClyde.

Yeah, I've dodge that move before, and I step back out of his reach. This is a guy who his own men call trouser-snake behind his back and who was cocky enough to make a pass at me after a drunken night of RAMC Medics versus SF at poker in a hotel in Kabul more than three years ago, despite my engagement ring being on full display. I'd decided that night that he was a reprobate, man-whore but also a bloody good laugh. That opinion might also have been my tequila goggles talking though.

There's another soldier standing behind his shoulder who I don't recognise, who has a grin on his face to match McClyde's.

"Captain McClyde," I reply politely. Out with the context of a smoky hotel bar in Kabul, I'm pretty confident he'd expect Army formalities to be observed. When his shit eating grin widens impossibly further, I'm thinking I might have gotten away with his nickname.

"Come on, Dawesey, it's Bones. Two bottles of tequila and too many hands of poker make as at least on those terms."

"Dawesey, this is Peanut. So, what the hell are you doing here? No wait, let me guess, you've been flown out by Beck to escort the Regiment's golden boy home? How's the Rupert doing by the way?

"We came by with Spanner. Did you ever meet Elvis Harte? Apparently, he and James were best friends. Spanner's following up with the wife. Was what Harte would have wanted, or so I'm told."

"That explains why Spanner's here. Why are you?" If my voice comes across as prickly, he doesn't seem to notice.

"We're heading back to barracks after extracting the boy-wonder from out of the jungle. To be honest, I was interested to see if wife number two was an upgrade on the stuck blond he went for the first time round."

I had to give it to him, while he might have the loveable rogue thing down, there's rather a large streak of arse-hole shining through today that I'd missed during are one and only meeting. But I was interested to know how the hell he knew Rebecca, because Charles had never mentioned McClyde to me.

"We're meeting with the Brig tomorrow, and we're out of this shit-hole back to Brize. Can we expect your company while escorting the boy-wonder on the flight?"

"He won't be on that flight. Captain James has a nasty wound infection and is currently heavily sedated and on I.V. antibiotics, you might want to be nicer. He's not in the best shape."

"I could give two tosses about that posh nob." There's a frown on his forehead that might suggest otherwise, however.

"But you cared enough to bring Spanner."

Careful Bones, your bullshit is showing, I think. It's fairly clear he's got some sort of personal beef with Charles, but that still doesn't explain why he'd bother to drive to a hospital in the middle of the night. I know Spanner knows how to drive.

"Told you, wanted to get a look at the wife. Is she another leggy, well-bred blond, with about as much warmth as a polar ice-cap?"

Dickhead. Rebecca and I are never going to be besties, but she's more than the chauvinistic caricature he's labelled her with.

I fold my arms across my chest, a challenging tilt to my chin, because he starting to get annoying. "He upgraded to a brunette, and better yet, she's one of my mob."

I wait for the penny to drop.

"He married a Medic? Never thought he'd go for someone in the Army. What rank is her Daddy?" he says with a sneer.

"They met in Afgan. She saved his life and she's the nuts if you want my opinion. I think he's got pretty good taste."

I'm still waiting for the penny to go clang, when I hear footsteps behind us and I turn to see Spanner heading down the corridor towards us. It makes me smile to see his ginger beard is thriving untamed.

"Molly?" he says, approaching rapidly.

I turn and step into his arms willingly. This guy knows my ability to hold my tequila, too. Different time, different place and when Elvis was still with us, but still, it's nice to see a friendly face.

"Nice to see your face-bush is still alive and kickin'. Kilmarnock not improved any yet?"

"As if you've any rights to crow about West Ham." He grins, and then says in a more serious tone, "How is he?"

"Better, but not great. His leg's been stabilised, but the infection's a worry. Just need to wait and see for now."

"We're flying out tomorrow, otherwise I'd stay. You'll let me know how he does, yeah?"

"Of course, thanks for coming. It means a lot."

"Elvis would have wanted us to…" He shrugs. "You know. You were both important to him."

He hugs me again.

"I know." I whisper against his scruffy cheek, trying not to sound as choked up as I feel.

We move apart and Spanner turns to his Boss.

"Molly, this is Captain McClyde and Peanut. Boys, this is Molly James, Captain James' wife."

I turn to Bones with a challengingly raised eye-brow, and he stares back with the same arrogant, couldn't give a shit smirk. I have to give him points for big balls. He is fully owning his fuck up, with zero apologies. Arrogant arse.

"I see what you mean about an upgrade." Shit head is actually enjoying this. I roll my eyes at him, Charles always said that Elvis being in SF met he had a touch of mad-bastard in him, I guess it's just as true for Bones.

"Look, I really need to get back. I just wanted to thank you for getting him out and mostly in one piece. Colonel Beck said it wasn't an easy situation.

"Just doing our job, Molls." Spanners says.

"Doesn't mean I don't appreciate it any less, okay? I've gotta go, but please take that thanks as being from Captain James as well. Peanut, it was nice to meet you."

I turned to Spanner and hug him again. "Spanner."

"Don't be a stranger, okay? It's been too long since we met up."

"Next dangerous shit-hole I'm deployed to, I'll be sure to give you a bell."

"How about giving me a bell when you're back in the UK as well."

Bones steps up, and waits, and I think, what the hell, two can play this game. I give him a hug too, saying quietly, "I'm not sure what your beef with my husband is, but I still want to say thanks anyway. He'd say the same if he could."

His smirk says he believes otherwise, but I couldn't really care. They wave, and then disappear off down the dark corridor and I return to the room.

Angeli is still in there with him waiting by the door.

"Any change?"

"He's been a bit restless, maybe he knows you were gone."

That's a nice idea in theory, but with the strength of the drugs he's on, I doubt it' true. A bitter little voice inside me adds, that's it's not as though he really noticed me being gone or present for rather a long time either way.

Angeli leaves and I return to his side, surprised to see that she's right. He's moving restlessly under the sheets, his forehead pinched in a frown.

I sit down on the bed, reaching out for the cloth and bowl of water to cool is face. He finches when the cool cloth touches his too hot skin and jerks away, eyes half opening and staring blankly into the room. I'm pretty sure he's not really awake.

"Charles? It's Molly." I pass the clothes gently across his face again, then neck and shoulders. He shivers in reaction. "I'm sorry, I know it cold. I'm trying to cool you down a bit. Do you know where you are?"

I reach over him to put the cloth back into the bowl, and his hands come up to hold my shoulders. "Molly?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"You left."

I touch his cheek. "I'm here now, I was just talking to your parents on the phone. They're worried about you."

"You went back to Afgan again."

"Charles, you're confused. We're in Belize. You had an accident."

"Not safe," he mutters, hand tightening against me. "Want you to stay. Stay here…stay home, safe…"

"Hey, I'm here and I'm safe, okay. Safe here with you."

He dark eyes fix on me, and they're anxious. "But you're not really here. It's always Lane, not you when wake up."

"I'm here now. I need to go get the nurse, tell them you're awake."

"No." His hand slides up and around the back of my neck and applies gentle pressure downwards. "Please, don't go, stay here. I don't want you to go."

There's what I should be doing, and what my battered heart needs me to do. I go with my heart, because that's the louder of the two voices.

Just for a minute, I tell myself, as I let him pull my head down to the crook of his neck and stretch myself out beside him in the bed. His arm wraps around my back and tightens as I feel him relax under me.

Just for a minute, because that's how long I'm likely to be able to hide in this lie of an embrace. We're both lying to each other by cuddle up like this. His fevered brain is playing tricks on him, and my weak will is lying to itself by pretending this means anything when reality comes knocking.

But just for a minute, we both stay wrapped around each other, lost together.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five – A Problem Regarding Lane**

I'm woken with a gentle touch on my shoulder and a softly spoken, "Molly."

It's a new morning and another way to embarrass myself in front of a Colonel. I'm slumped over in the chair by Charles' bed again, feet curled under me and drooling. Yes drool, ladies and gentleman.

Ever elegant under pressure, I jerk awake, with a mutter of, "Colonel Beck? What?" and just about bash our heads together. He's got good reflexes, luckily, and moves out of my aim with a tilt of his head. If he notices me wiping the drool from the side of my mouth with the back of my hand, he's too much of a gentleman to say anything.

Charles had been less so when I feel asleep on his chest on a plane once. There'd been drool, and piss taking about it for the rest of the holiday. Despite that, it's a happy memory, and I like those.

I look over to Charles. He's lying on his back, asleep. It might be my imagination, but his colour looks a little better. He sweat beaded forehead, however, says that the fever is still raging on.

Beck crouches down by the side of the chair, meeting me on eye level. "How has he been?"

"He woke up once, but was very confused. He recognised me, at least. I guess that's something. Quiet otherwise."

I don't mention the barn-storming nightmare he woke up from screaming about Badrai, and then my name, loud enough to bring one of the Doctor's in with extra sedation despite my protests. I consider mention it, then think; what's the point? From the deep frown line on Becks forehead and the dark circles under his eyes, I think he's had about as a bad a night of sleep as me. Why worry him more?

"Have you had much sleep?"

The most truthful answer would be; not much. In between Charles' bouts of restlessness, the nursing staff coming in and out to do obs, and my own nervous inability to stay asleep because even the slightest noise would jerk me awake on high-alert, I'd maybe managed three or four hours as an optimistic total.

Despite that, I'm feeling, better, stronger because he got through the night without complications. I'd scanned through his chart a few hours ago and the details noted down showed steady progress with no deterioration. He's holding his own. He came into this hospital with an infection that could have developed into anyone of a precarious set of complications, but none of those have happened, so we're doing okay, considering.

I smile a Beck reassuringly, trying to project the message that I was _coping_. After my little sob fest on him last night, it seems important to make that point.

"On and off. I managed to phoned home to his parents and sent a couple of emails and text. People have been asking how he's doing."

"Lots of people are concerned about you both."

"Bloody Army for you. Gossip mill has got up and running already."

Beck chuckles, a warm smile on his face. "I can't argue with your assessment of news travelling fast, but I think their concern is more than just gossip."

He stands up, and his expression is suddenly all business.

"You need to get yourself showered and dressed, and then we're going out for some fresh air and breakfast."

I look over to Charles again, and am about to argue when he uses his officer voice.

"That isn't open for debate, Molly. I'll sit with him while you change, and he'll be fine until you get back."

"Well, when you put it like that." I reply, tongue firmly pressed in my cheek. When Beck looks like he's hiding a smile, I know he understood that I was joking. I press a kiss to Charles' forehead and whisper, "I'll back soon."

Turning away from the bed, I find Beck holding out a carrier bag to me.

"Emily's suggestion, when I spoke to her on the phone last night. She thought, in the rush to get you here, you might not have had a chance to pack everything. I got Richards to shop for you when she drove me over here."

"That was very thoughtful of her, and you. Thank you."

He parts with the bag in the manner of a man handing over an unexploded bomb, and I wonder just what Emily might have suggested be included. On the point of exchange, I notice that the corner of a familiarly branded blue box is sticking out of the top of the bag. Apparently Tampax was included on Richard's shopping list. I find myself holding the bag behind my back and back while trying to curb my wholly inappropriate need to laugh. Poor Colonel Beck, I can't imagine that was an easy shopping list to communicate to Richards.

I could have spared us both this exchange if he knew what a packing ninja Jacs was, but in what world would that conversation ever come up between a Colonel and a Corporal? Damnit, the urge to laugh is getting stronger.

"I'll just…" I indicate the bathroom door, with a hand gesture. Offering to remove the offending bag, both of our unspoken knowledge of the contents of said bag, and the whole general awkward atmosphere to the bathroom and behind a locked door.

"Yes, of course." He says, turning his back and heading towards the chair by Charles' bed as though nothing embarrassing untoward could possibly just have happened. Sensible man…

ooOOoo

It turns out that the hospital has some gardens, tucked away to the side of the building with some outside tables and chairs set in the shade under some trees.

Beck unloads the contents of another, safer bag that he brought with him onto one of the tables and indicates I should sit and dig in. He or Richards, I'm not sure which, has managed to buy the makings of a tasty breakfast including coffee in takeaway cups, fruit salad, pastries and yoghurt. He pulls plastic cutlery and napkins out of the bag last before sitting down himself.

"There's some shops near the hospital. I picked this up while Richards was shopping for you. If you need a walk, fresh air, they're just over there. Not the worst place to go for some air." He points with his hand to the opposite side of the carpark and a road. "Just a thought."

As instructed, I tuck into the food. I'm surprisingly hungry for the first time since this whole shit storm started.

Beck seems to approve of my new interest in food and starts making gentle small talk, rather like he did on the plane. I return the favour. It's easy enough, polite and meaningless. A time filler.

He catches me looking at my watch, with a questioning tilt of his head. I smile guiltily because he's rumbled me.

"Nurse Duran said that the Doctor would be doing his rounds in about ten minutes, I really should get back."

"Yes, of course."

He passes me the empty bag, and I'm surprised by how little is left as I put what remains in the bag, and turn to drop it into a bin.

"Molly, can I have your phone? I want to give you Emily's contact details."

I pull it out of my pocket, unlock the screen and pass it to him.

He types them in quickly before passing the phone back. The heavy frown on his face is confusing, though. It could be an expression of annoyance or frustration, or even a mixture of both.

Being subtle as ever, I don't stop to think if I _should_ be asking, before I blurt out, "But you don't want to give them to me?"

"No, it's not that at all. Emily wanted to make sure you have a chance to speak to someone who could give you a different perspective of how PTSD effected our marriage, or might be effecting yours, to put it another way."

"I'm not sure I understand, Sir?"

It might be my imagination, but his mouth seems to get a little pinched when I say 'sir'. It was a reflex. Calling him Tom just seems wrong, somehow. Have I insulted him?

"Emily thinks I'm not necessarily going to be able to represent the opinions of all sides equally. I was going to suggest it myself, because I agree with her to some extent."

Ok, either I'm being more than usually thick or he's being very confusing. Given that he now looks very uncomfortable, I'm wondering if it's all me...

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"She thought my view might show a bias towards Charles' interests and the Army."

The penny drops, _heavily_. Lane and the RE Captain, his role as Charles' friend and C.O. It's pretty obvious what Emily's been getting at. If it all goes to shit, properly to shit. Who's side is he going to take, if it came to it. Emily's offering herself as a survivor of a similar mess and an unbiased voice.

Beck has already given me so much support, I'm left wondering if I should have accepted it all so easily and if I've put him into an impossible situation by doing it.

"I appreciate all the support you've given me, and I don't want it to make things difficult for you, at home." I say, scrabbling for the right words. "I'd understand completely if you need to, pull back from this… us… now."

He laughs, not in the sense that I'm being funny. It's more awkward than that, and I can feel myself blushing because I'm just so bloody out of my depth with all of this.

"No, that's not it at all. I'm sorry, I'm making a bit of an arse of explain this to you properly, another reason why you should speak to my wife.

"You haven't caused me any problems at home, or otherwise. Emily's just worried about you, and wants to help. You've heard my story warts and all, I wouldn't lie to you now."

"But…"

"No buts, Molly. She's right, she has a unique perspective both as someone who's been through it and as someone who knows a lot about the PTSD support that's available from the point of view of the needs of family members of sufferers. I want you to contact her for the benefit of her professional knowledge if nothing else."

We're up and walking now, heading towards the hospital building.

"If you're sure?"

"I'm very sure. Make the call when you have a chance, Molly. I think you'll both benefit from it." he says firmly as we re-enter the air-conditioned cool of the hospital main entrance. I realise something I've been missing.

"This is very important to you, isn't it?"

He stops walking and turns to me, his voice heavy and quiet with meaning. "I put my wife through a lot, too much. I want to spare you and Charles the same. If sharing our experience with you, or providing support either as a couple or as separate individuals does anything to help you both, then its all been worth it.

"Charles being brave enough to call me on my own bullshit in Afgan saved my marriage. I won't ever underestimate how much I'd have lost if he hadn't."

I'm hugging him before he has a chance to argue. Army protocol be damned. I think we both might need a hug right now.

I pull back, unapologetic and yet shy suddenly. "Thank you."

He squeezes my hands warmly, with a sort of clumsy little cough of embarrassment and then we're walking again as though the moment never happened.

"Private Wiggerty asked if he could come and visit you. He's one of the originals from your Section in Afgan, if I remember correctly, isn't he?" he says, steering the conversation onto an easier topic.

I nod with a fond smile. Brains, always one of the most caring out of Two Section. Not that they all didn't care in their way, it just seemed to come more naturally to Brains.

Fingers used to accuse him of being too in touch with his female side because he was the only son in a large family of girls. I'd cheerfully stirred the pot by pointing out that us girls like that in a man and that maybe Fingers should take note. Another happy memory from what feels like a lifetime ago now.

Beck interrupts my wandering thoughts by saying, "I could arrange that for this afternoon. Someone else to take your out for some fresh air?"

"I'm beginin' to think you're getting a bit fixated with me getting' fresh air, sir. What are you trying to suggest, that I'm lacking a tan?"

"Ah, Molly. The return of Charles' favourite Dawesey banter, you must be feeling better." He chuckles.

Several other cheeky responses spring to mind immediately, but I decided to go with an honest one instead. "He survived the jungle and I'm thankful for that. We need to get him through this infection, then I'll start feeling better, the rest of it just front, Sir."

"I know, Molly, I know. Whatever gets you through, ehh?"

"I'd like to see Brains, Sir. If you can swing it. I'll even promise to sit outside with him and top up my tan if it makes you feel better."

Beck's unguarded, completely genuine grin in response makes me break into my own smile. Our shared humour is a temporary point of shelter, but it's very welcome.

ooOOoo

Charles has been peaceful for most of the morning. Any time he's been restless, talking to him quietly and stroking his face settles him quickly. He even opened his eyes at one point, hand groping across the bed for mine as he said my name like a sort of question. I'm taking that to be better than yelling out because of a nightmare or delirium. As soon as I touched his hand, his fingers closed around mine and he slipped back into sleep again.

Late in the afternoon, I'm summoned to the hospital's downstairs reception to meet a visitor. I've a grin on my face a mile wide when I ran straight into Brains open arms. It's _so_ fucking good to see him, I almost cry. Sap.

He doesn't give me a chance to argue. With his hands on my shoulders, I'm steered outside and back to the tables I sat in this morning.

"Colonels order's, Dawesey. I'm to air, feed and water you as a priority." He produces a bag with cans of coke, filled baguettes and fruit with a flourish. "Not sure why, but you seem to be bit of priority with Colonel Beck. Must be nice to have friends in high places."

We both sit and I consider how to reply while stalling by filling my gob with a huge bite of French bread. It would be amazing to unload the whole sorry story on somebody, but Brains isn't the right person. Charles is his C.O. Brains is one of my oldest Army friends but I can't dump this on him, however much I need a shoulder to lean on. It would be a huge betrayal of trust to Charles and extremely unfair position to put Brains into, so I keep my gob shut.

"What are you on about, you nut-bar?" Deflect, deflect, deflect…

"Come on, Molls. You're not telling me that normal Army wives would be flown out like you were."

"I agree but it's not but my relationship with the Colonel, is it? It's about Charles' relationship with the Colonel. They've always been pretty tight."

Deflect, deflect, deflect…come on Brains, do me a solid and take the bait, please…

"I still makes me want to laugh whenever I hear you call Bossman by his name."

"What are you, twelve? Do you think I call him Bossman at home?"

He bumps his shoulder against mine with a big grin, and I know I've dodged a bullet.

"I really don't want to think about anything that you and Bossman do at home, Molls, thanks very much."

"Idiot," I say, punching him on the arm.

"How's he doing?"

"Okay with the leg, he was fluky lucky that it wasn't worse. The infections more of a worry, but his Doctors thinks he's doing okay. Blood test came back showing his body is responding to the antibiotics, temperatures lower but still high. He's been away with the bleedin' fairies most of the time, if I'm honest.

"What the hell happened out in that jungle, Brains. How did he get left out there with just Lane?"

"It was a nightmare that came out of now where, Molls. We were doing good, casualty retrieval training. Collected the bloody dummy ahead of the other team, and we were tabbing it back to the RV point. He took a short cut and stood on a bloody bore trap. He was screaming…. I've never–"

I hold my hand up to stop him, not sure who's getting more upset, him or me.

"It just went to shit rapidly. The radios were out, then the other group arrived with Georgie. They decided to leave her with the Boss while we tabbed it back to get help. Nobody banked on drugs runner getting in between us and the boss and Georgie."

"No one knew that was gonna happen." I say, soothingly.

"Yeah, but we should never have left them with just the two of them. Kingy wanted to stretcher him out, but Georgie was adamant. The Boss was out cold on morphine. Kingy went with the recommendation of the medic. The rest was just a shit storm waiting to happen."

Considering what he said, part of me wants to know why Georgie's opinion would override Kingy's, but I keep my mouth shut for once. What's the point? It's happened now.

Brains chats me the through the SF mission, and his unfortunate incident with the drone. I can't help it. I laugh, loudly and for a long time, much to his pretend annoyance.

Food finished, Brains looks at his watch. "Maisie should be back with Colonel Beck by now, I'm surprised Georgie hasn't put in an appearance yet."

"Georgie? She's here?"

"Yeah, cadged a lift with me. Said she had some medical records to drop off for Bossman and that she'd catch me up. No idea where she's got to now though."

"Hey, short-arse, slow up about, where's the fire?" Brains calls as I practically jog back towards Charles' room, because I have a horrible feeling I know exactly where Georgie is.

I turn the corner and freeze. An angrily restrained male voice echoes down the corridor outside of Charles room. The door of which is firmly closed.

Georgie is stood to attention beside a furious Colonel Beck who appears to be whisper-yelling at her to great effect, judging by the uncomfortable expression on her face. It's tone more than words that I'm catching, for the most part, but I do hear him say inappropriate, Charlie and Commanding Officer amongst a barrage of other words that he's flinging at Georgie.

Brains is stood at my side. When I take a sideways look in his direction, I can see how confused he is. Why wouldn't he? From his knowledge of the facts, Georgie is the hero in this little drama. Suddenly I'm bloody furious, because why should this be anything at all to do with her?

I break cover making myself walk down the corridor rather than run and get close enough ––when I'm half way to the door– to hear Beck, snap, "Dismissed!"

Georgie snaps a smart salute and pivots to head off down the corridor. When we pass each other our eyes meet briefly, hers look quickly to the floor with no words spoken, and then I'm at Charles' door, through the threshold and behind the closed door before anyone can stop me.

He's still asleep, breathing steady and even. My hands flutter over his face, resting on his cheek before I sit down heavily in the chair by his bed, heart hammering in my chest.

I'm not sure what I'm looking for ,or what scared me on such a primitive level, but I couldn't hide the effect that it's having on me as a heave one unsteady breathe after another, and wipe a tears from my face.

Charles, the room, everything is very much as I left it and yet Beck and his reaction…

I wipe two more tears away, as I admit to myself what I'd been thinking as I raced through that door: what if he woken up for her and not me? Admitting it to myself leaves me filled with a sickening sense of vulnerability.

There's a knock at the door, and I turn my head to see Colonel Beck enter.

"Corporal James?"

So, I'm James not Molly now?

Everything about him is stiff and formal. Tone, stance, expression, nothing like the warm, concerned individual he's shown to me all this time when we've been together. The change is jarring.

I want to ask: what the hell happened? But I recognise that I shouldn't verbalise the question, not when he acting like this. I guess my expression maybe asked it for me. His expression softens for the briefest of moments, then his officer mask is back in place.

"I'm returning to barracks now. You have my number if you need anything?"

"Yes, Sir." I reply respectfully.

He turns and looks over his shoulder. "Wiggerty? Richards and Lane will be back at the Land Rover, go and wait with them. I'll be there shortly.

He turns to leave, until I call out to him again. "Sir."

"Yes, James?"

"I'll make that call tonight, as we discussed."

He nods and leaves.

It takes me a few minutes, and a trip the bathroom to splash water on my face before I've calmed down properly. I'm left feeling drained and heavy with sudden exhaustion.

I pull the chair closer to his bed, and lean over, laying my head against his limp hand while resting my top half against the mattress. Part of me wants to close my eyes and sleep the rest of the turned rotten day away, but I doubt I could shut my brain up enough to find that kind of unconscious peace, however hard I tried.

The same thought keeps circle around and around in my tired nut. What the fuck has gone on between my husband and Lane in the jungle that has her turning up uninvited to his hospital bed and to be chewed out by his Commanding Officer?

The words escape me, even though there's no way he's in a state to be able to answer.

"What have you done, Charles. What the fuck have you done?"


	6. Chapter 6

Author Note

As ever, thanks for the reviews. I appreciate them all.

This one is going to get a bit heavy, apologies. It also ended up as one huge long run on chapter, so I split it into two.

The Rumi poem is because he puts it all so much better than I do.

* * *

I wish I knew what you wanted.  
You block the road and won't give me rest.  
You pull my lead-rope one way, then the other.  
You act cold, my darling!  
Do you hear what I say?  
.

.  
Will this night of talking ever end?  
Why am I still embarrassed and timid about you?  
You are thousands. You are one.  
Quiet, but most articulate.  
.

.  
Your name is Spring.  
Your name is wine.  
Your name is the nausea  
that comes from wine!  
.

.  
You are my doubting  
and the lightpoints  
in my eyes.  
.

.  
You are every image, and yet  
I'm homesick for you.  
.

.  
Can I get there?  
Where the deer pounces on the lion,  
where the one I'm after's  
after me?  
.

.  
This drum and these words keep pounding!  
Let them both smash through their coverings  
into silence.

The Blocked Road - Rumi

* * *

Chapter Six – Expectations…

The afternoon passes slowly. Colonel Beck doesn't return. I pass time sitting by Charles and staring out of the window, brain on fire with too many thoughts and completely and utterly unwilling to leave his side for a moment. I know what I'm doing is intinctive, illogical, and about a hundred other words for crazy that Charles would know but I'd need bleedin' google to look up, but I'm not leaving his side.

The what ifs spinning around in my head aren't healthy or helpful, but I just can't stop them. So, I let them come. Burning me from the inside out, going around and round in my nut, until I'm half dizzy with it.

ooOOoo

The afternoon plods into evening and the rhythm of the hospital goes on around me. I watch it like I'm a ghost in the room, silent and mostly invisible. At least I try. I do talk when talked to by the nurses who come in and out.

I ask questions and nod to the Doctor when he comes around again. He's apparently pleased with Charles' progress. I'm looking at my still unconscious husband, while he says this, and wonder if _pleased_ is quite the right word. I know I'm being unfair; letting my frustrations and lack of sleep show through. God knows, my head has been thumping like a drum all day, but I need him to wake up now, and he hasn't. The doctor's words of encouragement just leave me feeling more anxious.

Angeli comes onto shift later that night and bustles around in her motherly manner. She scolds me for not eating, and delivers tea and toast with an apology that it's too late to get me anything more substantial. I drink the tea under her watchful eye, but dump the toast in the bathroom bin when she leaves, then return to my solitary sentry post and my thoughts.

She comes in again, around midnight, and I can feel the weight of her stare as she moves around the bed. She asks if the Colonel has come back; I shake my head.

She points to my mobile, which is on silent and ignored on the bedside cabinet, and asked if I have a spoken to anyone from home today; I shake my head.

A hand appears on my knee and I turn started to find her kneeling by the chair. I hadn't noticed her come closer. She asks if I've slept. I smile, and a lie easily slips from my lips as I say "A little."

I know she doesn't believe a word of my bullshit. The frown that creases her forehead and the way her usually smiling lips are pinched into a straight line, speaks louder than the words she doesn't say, but she checks Charles over, updates his chart and leaves the room without saying anything more.

She returns ten minutes later with more tea and toast and this time watches while I force down one slice and half of the other with all of the hot, sweet tea. My phone is pressed into my hands, as she points to the text and voice message alerts that I've been ignoring all day.

"He's doing better, Molly. His temperature is coming down and his blood test results are good. Maybe it's time to look after you a bit now. Could you sleep?" She indicates the sofa in the corner. "Call home maybe? Lots of people seem to want to speak to you."

I reach out towards the bed, slipping my hand around his wrist; needing to touch him for physical reassurance. Maybe just because I need to remember why I'm here, or to try to get the crazy thoughts buzzing around in my head to slow down by focusing on him.

The phone buzzes in my hand with a text alert. The name Emily Beck sits on the screen, reminding me of my earlier promise to Colonel Beck to make a call.

"I will. Call home, I mean."

Angeli nods and smiles. Her expression is a carefully formed mask of warmth; her eyes say something different–worry. I've seen the same look on Colonel Beck's face. She's looking at me like a person who she's expecting to break.

ooOOoo

"Hello?" A soft voice with a Scottish accent asks sleepily, and I realise I forgot to check the time back at home.

"Oh, shit… I mean…I'm _so_ sorry. I forgot to check what time it was back home before I called."

Well done idiot. It doesn't seem to matter that I'd rehearsed this phone call in my head several times before I called and meant to start with a nice simple: 'Hi, is that Emily?' As ever, a thought goes through my head and the words are out of mouth like verbal diarrhoea before I even think to check myself. I curl forward, pressing my tired head to my bent knees, praying I haven't blown this call already.

"Molly?"

"Yes." I say stupidly, "Are you Emily?"

"Hi, it's good to hear from you. I'm Emily, well obviously." She chuckles softly. "I'm sorry, I'm on nightshift. I was just catching a nap in an on-call room. It's been a bloody long shift. My brain is still catching up with the rest of me."

"I'm the same. In the same state, I mean… with my head, and being tired and that." _Oh, for fucksake, Molly. Shut up._ "I'm sorry, I don't think I'm making much sense. I shouldn't have called and woken you up. Maybe I should–"

She laughs, and it's the same rich warm sound that I remember from our wedding. I remind myself, this is Emily, a small, blond woman with two pretty little girls who likes to unapologetically talk too much about her daughters. The woman who's been where I am in her own marriage. I need to get myself together and speak to her, instead of looking for reasons to hung-up like a scared, awkward little girl.

"No, really, it's fine. I should have finished about an hour ago. I'm on my own time now. It's all good. Call me Ems, by the way, most people do. Is it ok if I call you, Molly?"

"Please. I'd like that. People around here keep calling me Corporal James, or Mrs James. Except for one of the nurses and your husband. That's a bit…"

"Of a different kind of awkward?"

I laugh, despite myself because she right. "He keeps telling me to call him, Tom. I just can't, somehow."

"Army respect for rank. It's so drummed into us that it becomes second nature. I understand completely."

There are the sounds of her moving around in the background, and I imagine she's sitting up and stretching. The satisfied sigh she makes confirms my guess. The gesture is so _normal_ it's kind of comforting.

"So how is Charles doing? How are you doing?"

"They tell me he's doing better, but he still hasn't woken up yet, except for the odd minute here and there. With the fever and the drugs, he's pretty out of it."

"And you?"

A simple, polite and appropriate response forms in my brain. Something like: tired, but coping, but I stop myself from saying it, because who I am I bullshitting here–except myself. Emily…Ems knows our whole story and neither of us is calling for just a general chit-chat.

I'm hiding in the bathroom of his room, sitting on the floor with the door cracked open just enough so I can still see him, but half shut because part of me feels like I want to ran away from everything that is behind the door. My husband, his illness, his potential involvement… I let the thought fizzle out. I not ready to go there again tonight. It hurts too much.

I'm about as low as I can be, what is the point of hiding the truth behind polite lies. I'm drowning, she holding a hand out to pull me out of a storm; I need to reach for it and take all the help I can get.

"She came to his room today. Waited until I was out of his room, and came in here. Ever since… I don't know what to think. I've no solid evidence that anything has happened, but what am I supposed to think when she can't look me in the eyes and is sneaking around to see my unconscious husband?"

"When I first thought about sending Tom the divorce papers, he was in Afgan with his version or her. I didn't even know she existed at that point but I already had a third presence in my marriage in the form of his PTSD. That was enough of a strain. It all came out later, after I sent the papers. The was a whole other shit-storm of different kind." She pauses. "I'm sorry, I'm maybe being too blunt?"

"No, please. I need you to be honest with me. I need to know what I'm up against."

"Okay, good." She laughs, sounding a bit embarrassed. "Please excuse my potty mouth."

"I've heard worse and you haven't heard me ranting and ravin'. It's not pretty. Charles reckons I taught him new vocabulary to shout at his squaddies after our first flaming domestic."

She laughs again, and it's a lovely sound. Warm and distracting. "Bloody Army, bad influence."

Then her voice is suddenly serious again. "Look, you can take my advice, or not, but I think you need to focus on his injuries at the moment, and then the PTSD. I know it's difficult if your heads full of what-ifs.

"Right now, all this, is about survival. You need to find a way to focus on what's important, the rest will come out, if there's anything to come out."

Survival, how right she is. I'm surviving by clinging on to my sanity by the tips of my fingers, thanks to Georgie's little visit.

"I'm sitting on the floor of his hospital room en suite hiding because I can't bear to be away from him, but a big part of me is struggling to know if I'd still be here if he wasn't injured, after today."

Tears spring to my eyes, and I pass my hand over my face. It's only then I realise it's shaking. Then I feel angry, because I'm so bloody sick of crying.

"Bloody awful, isn't it? Loving someone when part of you isn't sure if you should even trust them anymore."

I almost say: you have no fucking idea how awful it is; the way my love for him is twisted up in painful, confusing emotional knots and tangled up with how much hurt the thought of him and Georgie being together causes. It all feels too personal and raw for anyone other than me to understand. Then I realise she does understand in her own ways that are just as personal to her as mine are to me.

"You may not want to hear me say this, but you are allowed to walk away, if you need to. This isn't just about his illness, and it is an illness. It's also about you and your wellbeing. There may come a point when it's too much for you or you just need a break."

"I couldn't do that… walk away. I don't think I could…"

"I'm so sorry you're going through this, Molly."

"It's not your fault, is it? You don't have to say sorry. It's just cruel fucking fate that he's seen too much and lost too much. It isn't his fault either, is it?"

"No, it's not. It's an illness. His body and brain's chemical response to trauma. I wish I could say, as a Doctor, it's even a well understood condition, but I can't. Not really. It effects one person one way, and not another. We don't really know why. But there are treatments for it.

"I feel like such an idiot. I'm a Medic. I even took extra training courses to understand what he was going through. Why couldn't I help him better before it got to this?"

"You've no way to know what was going on in his head, not really, or what trauma set it off. He was wounded in Afgan, it might have started there. Or the incident in Syria – how could you know? There's a theory that trauma coupled with an injury increases a person's chances of developing PTSD. I won't sugar-coat it, he may deteriorate when you get home."

"I should have reported it, got him help sooner. I couldn't bear to expose his struggles to the world like that. To make him more vulnerable. I needed it to be his decision; I was so wrong."

"I did the same, and I'm a doctor, but we're both a wife first. You have to remember that."

"I know, doesn't make me feel any better about it though."

"There's a lot of help out there for you both, and you need to access it as soon as you can.

"I can tell you from experience that the literature and therapists will tell you you're there to support, love, and listen to your partner with PTSD. And it's all true. He will need that.

"But you'll need to work out how to cope supporting someone when you might be angry with, or while you feel vulnerable within your own marriage. That's why you need to get help as well. Separate help and help together. It's going to be a long road."

"What if I'm not strong enough?"

"Do you want to know what I saw at your wedding? A wife who loved her husband and husband who loved his wife. When it gets tough, try to remember that's what you're fighting for. And at the same time, you're allowed to have a voice, and limits and boundaries. That's important, too."

"Thank you, for talking to me. It's been helpful. I've felt so alone in this for so long."

"I'm here for you whatever you need. Want to curse him out or sob your heart out, call me. If you want to talk about PTSD therapies, or get blitz on cocktails, or gossip about Love Island. I don't care I'm here. Just call or email. When you're back home we'll meet up. Okay?"

"I will, I promise."

I hate the vulnerability in my voice as much as I hate that I _need_ to ask.

"What about Lane? From what Colonel… sorry, Tom said, things haven't been right with her for a while."

"Lane is not my business and–I mean this kindly– shouldn't be yours. You have enough to deal with. Let Tom do his job and get the Army to help and support her, but if you want my opinion, based on what I know, it wouldn't surprise me if she has PTSD, too."

"So, what do I do now?"

"You go back in there and love him the best you can, until he's stronger and home. Then you start talking and listening, and insist that he does the same."

"Okay, I can do that."

"You know Tom's there to if you need anything, Molly. Me too. Any time."

"Thank you, Ems. I mean that sincerely."

"Anytime, Molly. Take care of yourself. Bye."

"Bye."

When I haul myself to my feet, it feels like somebody has lumped forty years onto my age. I literally ache.

Emily has given me a lot to think about, and an approach to try for getting by for the now. I need to focus. Focus on getting him home and stronger. Focus on keeping myself strong so I can achieve getting him home.

My wrecked face greets me in the mirror again, just like yesterday and I take the same simple approach. A wash, clean teeth, and clean uniform before I go back to Charles.

I don't let myself doubt my reasons this time, when I climb into the bed and tuck myself against his side. I need to try to sleep, and I need the comfort of being close so I can hear him breathe, hearing his heart. I just need him.

Angeli comes in to check on him an hour later, and seems to approve of what she sees even though we both know there are plenty of rules and reason for why I shouldn't be in his bed. She gets another blanket for me, lays it over my shoulders and leaves as alone.

ooOOoo

"I'm curled up in the chair by his bed using my phone to google medical websites on PTSD and typing up questions into an email to send to Emily later, when Brains and Angeli appear in the doorway.

"There's a visitor for you, Corporal James." Angeli says, sounding peculiarly formal to me given that it's Brains standing there. The fact that he's practically silently giggling at someone using my rank around him only underlines the point.

"Morning, Dawesey. Colonel's orders. I have breakfast and A.F.W instructions to carry out." Brains say, his voice low, as though he worried he'll wake Charles up.

"A.F.W, what's that when it's at home?"

"I'm to air, feed and water the Colonel favourite little Medic." He rustles a paper bag with a grin full of devilment splitting his face.

"You're making me sound like a pot plant, you tosser. And less of the little. If you had a cup of tea with you, I might have been interested."

He pulls a carry-out tray with two cups in it out from behind his back. "You doubted me?" he says, faking a sad face.

"Bring it over here then."

"Ah, ah. Colonel's orders, you're to get some air."

I look over to Charles' sleeping face. The hand I have on his arm tightens anxiously, and I shake my head.

"No, I don't want to leave him." It came out a little sharper than I meant and Brains frowns in response. "Sorry, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to snap. It been a long night. I'm just…"

"Exhausted?"

"Yeah. Exhausted. That's a good word for it."

"I'll stay with him," Angeli says.

"How about we just go for a walk, and drink the tea. I've got pastries and fruit. We can have that when we get back." He points to the sofa and table. "Ten minutes?"

Brains holds a hand out to me and with a small pull a friendly hand around my shoulder I'm steered out, down the corridor and into the gardens. The air is warm and humid compared the cool in Charles' room. It must have rained last night beause everything around as is damp.

Brains passes the paper cup into my hand, and I swallow. Hot sweet tea fills my mouth comfortingly.

"There's enough sugar to make the spoon stand up in that tea, so it should be to your taste." he says, smiling, but there's something heavier in eyes. He's another person who is trying to manage me, I realise with a sinking sense of failure.

"Thanks."

We walk for a few minutes in awkward silence which he breaks eventually after we've completed a slow lap of the building.

"We're all worried about you, Molls. What with Bossman being in such a bad way. But I think there's more going on, isn't there?"

"I don't know what you mean." I reply, attempting deflection, but the urgency of his expression means I know he's not going to leave it there. Brains always was faster on the uptake than the rest of Two Section. There's a sensitive soul behind those big blue eyes of his, and he's seen far too much of edges of this mess to leave it be. That much is clear.

He stops walking, catching a hold off my arm and pulling me to a stop under the shade of one of the trees. Two nurses bustle pass us as Brains steers us off the path onto the wet grass.

"You look strung out, Molls and after yesterday, with Georgie, the way…" He trails off when I close my eyes at the mention of her name. "Things have been weird at barracks. There's been gossip about Georgie and the Bossman being hauled up in front of the Brig.

"Then she turns up at the hospital and Colonel Beck bawled her out afterwards. She's been hiding in the Med Centre at barracks ever since with barely a word spoken to any of us. Beck's had a face like thunder on him. It got me thinking. We've all noticed the Bossman hasn't been quite right since Nepal."

I heave in a heavy breath and Brain's arm comes up and around my shoulders comfortingly.

"He's not been right since Syria." I reply, glassy eyed and studying the grass because I don't want to see the pity on his face. "He's been struggling…we've been struggling…"

"I didn't realise it went that far back. At the family day at Bulford, after Syria, we all noticed he was a bit more protective of you, kind of possessive. Hovering and that. Fingers thought you might be pregnant? Then he seemed wrong in Nepal. I don't know, tenser, sadder. We thought something had maybe had gone wrong? I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't be asking this…"

"I wasn't pregnant. You should know better than to listen to Fingers and his gossip. God blessed him with a big gob and insufficient brains to back it up." I say, but I know my attempt at humour has fallen flat when I look up and can see the thoughts going around in his head.

Please don't go there Brains, I think. But he does…

"Shit, Molls. Him and Georgie, the awkwardness, they haven't have they?"

He looks as horrified at the thought as I suspect I do that he's vocalised all of my worst fears and doubts. Then his face clears, and he nods to himself.

"Nah. No way, not Bossman. All the way back to Afgan, you were his favourite. I was at your wedding, gone on tour with him too many times to count and seen his reaction when we were heading home and he knew you'd be there waiting. You've always hung the moon and stars for him. No one changes that much and not Captain James."

He sounds so sure of himself, but he doesn't have the full story… can't possibly understand why Charles isn't the same Captain James he's remembering. Army life has stolen, broken and bent parts of him that made him their beloved Captain and have left him vulnerable in too many ways. Neither of us are the same since Elvis died. In all my sitting by his bed thinking and waiting, I've realised that more than anything else.

Then I'm talking, even though I know I probably shouldn't. Knowing that it's putting Brains in an awkward position, but sod it, it won't take him long to work out the rest. I'd rather he heard the truth from me.

"I think it started with the death of the Medic in Syria. She had the same injuries as Geraint. I think it trigger bad memories maybe. He had terrible nightmares and his behaviour at home changed. Then Elvis…Captain Harte died, and things went properly to shit.

"I tried really hard to get him to get help. To talk to somebody, but he been in denial. Hiding himself in the job and running away from the problems at home.

"He and Georgie both lost Elvis and that's got twisted up with his anxieties and guilt. I don't know that anything's happened between them exactly, but I know things aren't right between us, so maybe..."

Brains' arms close fully around me, and I'm leaning against his chest gratefully. "PTSD's a bastard, but it doesn't change who someone fundamentally is. He wouldn't do that to you. No way.

"I know Georgie's not been right since Captain Harte died…a bit of a loose cannon is probably a nice way to put it, but I've not seen anything pass between them like that. I promise you, Molls."

"I can't let it be a priority right now. I need to get him well and home before I worry about that. He needs the help and support he's being in denial about all this time."

"You need support, too. Don't forget that."

"I have support, Brains. I promise."

"Damn right you do. I'll be there, too, whenever you need me. Don't forget." he says, squeezing me tighter.

"I won't…I promise."

ooOOoo

Angeli greats us with her normal warm smile as we head back into Charles' room.

"Thank you, Angeli. How's he been?"

"Restless. I think he knows when you're not here." Angeli says as she passes me on her way towards the door.

I sit on the edge of the bed, and look down at his pale face. He groans, face pinched.

"Charles?"

Hope flutters in me for a second, then fades. Of course, there is no response in terms of open eyes or recognition. I swallow passed the lump of tears forming in my throat. I'm so bloody sick of dissolving into tears over nothing. This is nothing, giving what he survived to get to this point, except evidence of my weakness.

I focus on the warm, but reassuringly cooler softness of his skin under my palm as I touch his face. The prickle of his stubble since I haven't shaved him since yesterday. The twist of his curls as I run my fingers through the hair on his temple. I press my forehead to his gently and feel calmer.

"It's okay. I'm here, now. I'll be here when you wake up." I say, sitting back up, as the rustling sound of a paper bag reminds me that Brains is still in the room. I look towards him and he makes an apologetic face, before indicating he's going to get something and darts out of the room.

Charles mutters something under his breath which might have been my name, then rolls his head towards me before settling, his chest rising and falling with a slow, steady rhythm and we're back to the normal way of things. Him sleeping and me on guard. I slip off the bed and back into the chair by the side of the bed.

Brains reappears with two steaming mugs in his hand, and indicates with his head to join him on the sofa where he's laid out the food.

I look between him and Charles, knowing I should join Brains… Instead I shake my head and curl my hand around Charles' arm.

Brains shrugs good naturedly, and get up and moves the other chair to beside mine at the side of the bed. He transfers the food and drinks to the bedside cabinet and sits down with a smile.

"No problem. Mountain and Mohammed and all that."

Sweet Brains. If he finds anything awkward about sitting by the bedside of his unconscious CO while his CO's wife quietly unravels, he doesn't show it. Instead he places a plate with a Danish pastry on it into my lap, and passes the mug of tea into my free hand.

"Thanks."

"Your welcome."

I sip the tea and we sit in a companionable sort of silence, except for the hum of the air-conditioning and Charles' soft breathing.

"You're gonna have to eat that." Brains says, his voice pitched low but not quite a whisper, with a nod towards the plate in my lap. "I've instructions."

"Colonel Beck again?"

"Amongst others. You've got quite a fan group. The nurse, Angeli? Hell, even Captain McClyde was asking after you."

"Yeah, I know what he's asking after."

Brains makes a quiet snort of laughter, then points at the plate with his hand.

I look over to Charles, reassuring myself of something…god knows what. It's not as though he's about to spring out of bed and run off. I know I'm being ridiculous.

I let go of his arm with a sigh, and put the mug down on the cabinet so I have both hands free, I rip a piece of pastry off and chew. The sweet taste of cinnamon and apples fills my mouth, and my stomach decides to rumble loudly in response.

Brains grins. "Seems your fan club were right. You're not eating enough."

Something occurs to me: why is Bones still here to ask after me?

"Bones is still here? I thought he was due to fly back with his boys yesterday."

"He was. I forget to tell you. It was all part of the shit-storm with the Brigadier. He's been seconded back to our regiment. I've now idea what went down to piss the Brig off, but Captain McClyde is our new CO for the foreseeable and the man is not happy about it."

"Oh shit, he's gonna hate that."

"Apparently we can look forward to him beasting each and every one of us. That's a direct quote. He's even been all over Kingy. He's another one who's been going around with a face like a slapped arse."

"Another one?" I ask, realising I've finished the Danish as Brains slides another one onto my plate with a smile.

"I can't say Colonel Becks exactly been a happy camper either. I'm assuming it to do with McClyde's dressing down from the Brig, since he was fine with him before that. He's been using him as a driver instead of Maisie, too. That's got to be some sort of Officer way of putting him back in his place."

"Are the other SF boys still here?"

"No, they left already."

"That can't be easy for him. He's the kind of guy that lives and breathes SF."

Like Elvis was… That thought has the loss of him spiking heavily in my chest. He became my very own irritating arse of a special forces nob who was also like the big brother that I never knew I needed. He was the one person in my life who could drive me to extremes of laugh-until-it-hurts humour or screaming annoyance, effortlessly, except, Charles during our best and worst moments.

I bloody miss Elvis.

Brains snaps his fingers under my nose annoyingly and I bat his hand away.

"Where'd you go there? Lost you for a minute."

"Sorry, I was just remembering something."

"I think that guy has a screw loose, if you want my opinion."

"He's good at what he does. You could learn from worse, but he'll be a bastard while he doing it. No doubt about that."

"I meant to ask, how do you know him at all."

"That would involve a drunken game of poker in a hotel in Kabul a long, long time ago."

Brains grin widens. "Another exciting chapter in the further adventures of Molly. We've missed you. It's not the same without you in Two Section."

"I've been away longer than I was in originally." I say, as Brains takes the empty plate from me and offers me a banana which I refuse.

Charles shifts in his sleep again and I move out of the seat to sit on the side of the bed again, taking Charles's hand into mine as I hold it in my lap.

"More tea?"

"No, I'm full. Thanks."

Brains sits further back into his chair, cradling the cup in his hands like he's warming them.

"Being in Afgan together, it's different to doing the humanitarian missions and stuff. Made for stronger bonds, you know what I mean?"

We'd laughed and love on that tour. Too much and not enough at the same time, in some respects. But I know what he means. All of my boys were special to me. Including the one that we lost.

"I know what you mean. You guys will always be my section. I miss you all."

"Maybe you can come visit us in barracks, when he's a bit better. Honestly, the atmosphere is proper shit, Dawesey. You'd make it better."

"I wish you well with that, mate. But I'm staying here."

"Come on, Dawesey." he says in a sing-song, wheedling sort of voice and with a cheeky grin. "You said you missed us. You need to come and work some of that Dawesey on McClyde."

I can't help myself. The winning grin, that tilt of the head. It's so Brains at his sweetest, most manipulative best.

I paused for dramatic effect, the smile creeping across my face despite my attempts to hide it.

"Nah, I'm busy here. You lot are on your own."

"Dawesey! How could you abandon us like that!" Brains replies with completely fake outrage, and I dissolve into giggles. It feels good to laugh.

"That's Jamesey to you, Brains. My wife's got better thing to do than run after you cock wombles." a raspy voice says from my side.

"Charles?"

"Bossman?"

We're both crowded round the bed as his hand tightens around my fingers and two tired, dark brown eyes fix on me.

"Hey." he says, his other hand reaching up to touch my face.

I press his hand tighter to my cheek with a shaking hand, utterly unable to find my voice in the middle of my tumbling relief that he finally a wake.

"It's good to see you awake, Bossman." Brains says. Charles' eyes move from me to Brains and back to me.

"Yeah, about bloody time, too." I say shakily. "Lazy arse."

"How long?" he asks, voice soft and rough, eyes intent on mine again. "Hours?"

"Try days." I reply, my breath hitching. His hand slides to my shoulder, squeezing. "Don't you ever do that I again. Shit, Charles. I was so bloody scared."

His hand tightens, and I move with it, tucking myself into his neck as his hand slides into my hair to hold the back of my head.

He whispers against my forehead. "I'm sorry…I love you."

And I finally lose it, ugly sobbing into his neck as I just let everything go.

ooOOoo

I have to leave his arms eventually when his room starts to fill up with medical staff come to check on the newly awake Captain James.

He answers questions and submits to being poked, prodded and fussed by medical staff. I stand off to the side with Brains who stands with an arm round my shoulder and a relieved smile on his face.

I can see when he's losing patience with the attention. His eyes meet mine and his hand stretches out, palm open. I step to the bed and slide my hand into his without argument, settling myself beside him by, siting on the side of the bed.

He catches me fiddling with his wedding ring, much as he had tried to with mine when he was first brought in to the hospital. We share an intense stare and I wish that the remaining nurses would fuck off so that we can actually talk.

When they eventual do, I can't help the relieved sigh that escapes out of me.

Charles looks over towards Brains and there's something in the manner of his stare that has Brains straightening out of his slouch as though he might need to stand to attention any second.

"Brains, can you maybe go get a brew, come back in a bit?"

"No problem, sir. I'll need to go sort out a lift back to barracks anyway."

"Great. And, Brains, thanks." They hold a whole silent conversation over the top of my head which ends with a subtle tilt of Charles head and the door closing behind Brains as he leaves.

Then we're alone, and I'm suddenly fucking terrified of what happens next.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven - … And Other Painful Truths**

I have everything I want awake and right in front of me, and what do I do? Let my mouth go into nervous, auto yap in response.

"I gonna have to call your mum and dad, they've been worry sick." I stand up and rush off towards where his Bergen is laid beside mine in the corner of the room. "Maybe you should speak to them later? You know, when you're more rested and that."

I rummage around in the side pocket and pull out his mobile and charger before busting back towards the side of his bed and plugging it in.

"Sammie will want to speak to you, too." I switch the plugged-in phone from one hand to the other, then back again. I'm practically vibrating with anxiety, but I don't seem to be able to settle enough to know what to say outside of the nervous word vomit falling out of my mouth. "Brains can let Kingy and the rest know. They've been worried. Oh, fuck, Colonel Beck. I need to call him–"

His hand takes the phone out of my shaking hands and put it done on the cabinet with a soft thud. Then I'm tugged gently back towards the side of the bed and we're face to face.

I have no more words and too many all at the same time as his dark eyes study my face intently. His head moves towards mine, and mind towards his. Then we're kissing, and it's a needful and demanding sort of emotion that's flowing through us with every touch of his mouth against mine and my tongue against his. Backwards and forwards, until it's a living a breathing thing between us and all around us.

A need for breath ends it suddenly when I pull away and bury myself against his neck with a quiet sob of his name. " _Charles…"_

"I love you, and I'm sorry–" He says against my neck, his voice breaking on sorry. "You're the absolutely centre of my world, you know that don't you?"

"I love you, too. More than anything. I can't lose you again, please Charles. No more denying that there's a problem and pushing each other away or hiding behind our jobs."

"I swear to you, Molly. I'll do anything. I don't want to lose you. You're the only bloody thing that makes any sense in my life anymore. I can't believe I've fucked this up so badly. I've missed you so bloody much."

"You've made mistakes, I've made mistakes."

He lifts my face from his neck, hands cradling my face. "How have you made any mistakes? All you tried to do was get me to accept help."

"Threatening to leave, asking you to leave, was wrong I see that now. The whole argument about Smurf, you tried to tell me you were broken, wasn't that the word? I was too busy with my own hurt to hear you. I'm sorry for that. We both fucked up."

"I love you. I've been so bloody lonely without you. I don't care about anything else but you."

"I want to get you home, get you healthy then start counselling. Promise me, Charles."

"Yes, anything, I don't want to lose you either. I'm so fucking sorry."

"I don't want you to apologise, I just want you to understand what I need. I've had some time to think, while you've been away with the fairies. I can do this, get through anything with you but I need you to talk to me. No more running away, no more shutting me out, total honesty between us, and…"

I hesitate, because this is big one for me. It would be very easy to bury it in a shit ton of denial and forget, but it would also mean leaving it to fester. I take I deep, breath. "And no more Georgie Lane."

His eyes open wide, pupils black with anxiousness. "Nothing happen with Georgie, I've never been unfaithful to you Molly, I swear to you."

"I believe you, but we know things between you both aren't as they should be, are they?" His eyes drop away from mine. I can see the shame and confusion in them and a sheen of tears.

"I don't know how it even happened, Molly. I can't discern what's going on in my own head any more, and it's fucking terrifying me that I'm going to lose you because I've let myself get into such a mess."

"I don't care about any of that. I'm here, I'm not leaving. We need to get home, get help, for both of us and well sort the shit out from the clay together, okay?"

"Together?"

"Always together." I say, wiping a tear from his face with my fingers. "Always together. I can cope with anything as long as you're honest with me, like I'm being honest with you. I've stated my boundaries, I need you to respect them."

"In all of this shit, you've always been then only thing I need. I don't really understand how we ended up so far apart from each other, but I've always only ever needed and wanted you. I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Come here" he says, pulling me against his shoulder and I willingly curl against his chest. "I need to get myself back together before Brains comes back and finds his CO a blubbering wreck. Holding you is the cure to all the shit going on in my head right now."

"If a cuddle is was what you needed, why didn't you just ask?" I say, trying for some sass to lighten things. "I can't have the great Captain Charlies James blubbering now, can we?"

"Fucking hell, Molly. I've missed you. Even your bloody gob. You've no idea how much."

"I'm the same, we just got a bit lost along the way. That's in the past, okay? We're going to get through this together, now."

His arms tighten around me, and he presses his lips to the top of my head, eyes, cheek and ear. "I swear. Always together."

Brains returns a little later, knocking on the door before entering. I'm still in Charles arms, and couldn't give a shit about appropriateness or PDAs in front of one of Charles' squaddies. I am where I need to be. None of the rest of it bloody matters. And anyway, he's Brains. He's never gonna be _just_ one of Charles' squaddies to me.

A call to Brains' mobile confirms that Richards has arrived to take him back to barracks, and Charles starts trying to persuade me that I need to leave with them.

"I'm doing fine, Molly. I'm worried about you." He strokes his fingers down my face gently and I lean into the contact. I know I must look like a worn-out wreck, but it's not like I can do much to hide it.

"I'm fine. Just tired."

"Maybe it's time for my own personal Boudica to take off her armour and rest." he says, running his hand down my uniform clad arm pointedly. "You don't need to be Corporal James anymore. Just be my Molly."

As ever, and even though he looks exhausted and has just woken up from an infection that could have killed him so easily, those dark eyes of his take in altogether too much. My need to be in uniform coming across as clear as day to my overly observant husband.

He looks over to Brains. "Am I right in guessing that there's a hotel room booked for her?"

"Since the first night. She wouldn't leave you."

"Go back to the hotel. Get a proper shower, change of clothes, sleep. I'll still be here when you get back."

"I can't…"

"You can, please Molly, I'm worried you're going to run yourself into the ground. Your dropping on your feet."

"You've just narrowly avoided sepsis and a dozen potential side effects and you're worried about me?"

"Since you're happy to acknowledge that I'm the wounded soldier here, shouldn't you be more willing to do what I ask?"

"Really, you're going to pull that one out of the bag?"

Brains is already standing behind me holding my Bergen. I know I'm losing the argument.

"A shower, change of clothes and some phone calls. I'll be back straight away."

"Add a nap to that, and you have a deal."

I'm still shaking my head as Brains steers me out of the door.

ooOOoo

It turns out a bath when you're really tired isn't the best idea if you're in a hurry to get back to somewhere. I fell asleep.

I make couple of calls home, including to his parents. In a change of clothes, I hop into a taxi to get back to the hospital instead of calling Maisie, as per Charles' instructions.

On the drive back to the hotel, Brains and Maisie had been planning a small celebration for back at barracks because of the good news about their beloved Bossman. I didn't want her to miss out on that because of me.

Being back in normal clothes with my hair loose and swing done my back, feels slightly weird after so many days in uniform through choice rather than because of rules and regs. I guess I have laid down my armour, as he said.

The ankle grazer, jeans, flats and tunic top that Jacs packed is also comfortingly familiar, so I go with it. I'd happily speed walking down the corridor to his room in PJ's right now, if it meant I could get back to his side faster.

I wave at Angeli as I walk passed the Nurse Station. She looks like she might want me to stop for a chat, but I can catch up with her later. The only thing that matters is making sure Charles is fine, and then catching up with Colonel Beck about arrangements for his Medivac back to the UK. I turn into his door making a mental note to call him sooner rather than later because it will be getting late in the UK, if he wants to speak to someone about it back home today.

I freeze. The sound of his names on my lips dies before it is ever formed into words because of what I see in front of me.

She's holding his arm as I walk in and they both turn to face me. Charles' expression is frightened, as he pushes her hand away like it burns. Georgie steps away from the bed, eyes to the floor, just like before.

"Molly?" Charles say, his voice breaking on my name. "It's not what you think…"

I walk to the other side of the bed from _her_ , ignoring them both, and pick up his phone from the bedside cabinet. My fingers tap out his unlock code as the screen comes to life. The background picture on the phone flashes to a photo of me, Sam and Charles on holiday in Orlando two years ago before the icons zoom onto the screen covering our smiling faces.

Those happy faces in the middle of this emotional shit-storm sting like salt on a fresh wound.

I scroll to his call log. Last call in there is Georgie's number. He called her. Whatever this meeting is meant to be for, he called her after he sent me away to a hotel room so I was out of the way. I let that truth sink in before I turn back to them.

I'm so icy calm, I'm actually scaring myself. Like I've detached myself from everything, and I'm looking on as somebody else operates my movements and makes my lips form words.

I turn in Georgie's direction, without looking directly at her. "You need to leave!"

My eyes track her movements as she walks out the door, and then I wait staring at the empty doorway for long enough to be sure she has really gone.

"Molly."

Charles stretches out his hand towards me, and I'm remind of a time in Birmingham, when he was in another hospital bed. A simpler time when I would have moved forward, put my hand into his and offered him the comfort he's stretching out for so desperately. I'm not that girl anymore. I wish I was, but I'm not.

I put the phone down by his outstretch hand, call log open and I know he can see what I've been looking at. Can see how he's fucked this up.

I raise my eyes to his, wordless and accusing. I'm final in my resolve. I stated my boundaries. He blew throw them. I can't be here anymore.

I turn and walk out, flinching when I hear his loud, panicked yell of my name before I'm completely out the door, and his repeated calls as a keep walking.

I get to the empty Nurses' Station and stop. Hunched over, arms wrapped desperately around myself like I'm trying to hold myself together for just one second more. I don't think I've ever felt pain like this before…

A hand touches my shoulder and I flinch away.

"Molly? What happened?"

"Lane." I say simply looking up into Tom Beck's pale blue eyes.

Charles voice, shouting my name again echoes down the corridor and he looks towards his open door, his expression conflicted.

"You should go to him… I can't, I just can't be here right now."

His hand squeezes my shoulder.

"Please, I just can't…" Another comforting squeeze and he heads towards Charles room as I asked.

As he walks away, I turn and bolt off down the corridor towards the hospital entrance, because when I say I can't be here I mean it in every sense. In his room, in this hospital, in this country. I'm done. I want to go home.

My saviour, in the form of a very bored and pissed off looking Bones, is illegally parked in an ambulance bay propped up against the driver's door of an Army Land Rover. I guess his penance as Colonel Beck's driver is going to be to my advantage this afternoon.

I don't stop to talk to him, instead climbing into the passenger seat and wait until he joins me in the vehicle. He takes a couple of seconds to read my face, before the engine roars to life and we pull away.

"What did he do?" Bones asked, voice pitched low, so low it almost gets lost against the engine sound and the rumble of the Landy's tyres on the tarmac.

I pretend I never heard him, keeping my head turned towards the window, profile half hidden in my hair. The hair I washed, blow dried and left down because that's the way Charles likes it best. I'm such a fucking idiot.

"I know you, Dawesey. You've got guts A woman like you wouldn't just bolt. So, what did he do?"

"Leave it, okay."

"Aren't we mates?" he asks.

"It takes more than tequila and poker in a shit-hole hotel to gain that status from me." I reply drily.

He pulls a face that might be his attempt to pretend that I've wound him, but when his expression smooths out I know he's stopped mucking about.

"Cards on the table…I know him from Sandhurst, and there wasn't any love lost between us back then. For the record, I still think he's a dick.

"I knew who you were engaged to when we met in that hotel. It was the talk of the fucking regiment when he came back after his injuries from Afgan. The Captain who married his Medic. There was an Officers' Mess wager for how long you'd both last.

"You beat even the longest odds, and he got a reputation for being one of _those_ husbands."

I look up.

"The one that can't stop talking about his wife kind. I'm not sure why you have me on a mercy mission helping you flee to God knows where, but I'll bet it's not because he cheated. I can't see it... he's not the type.

"It would be rather useful if you'd tell me exactly where I'm fleeing with you to, by the way. And, for the record, if you need revenge options I'd help." He grins wickedly, all teeth and devilment.

"I feel for your wife."

"Ex-wife, but then I never was one of those husbands. So, what did he do?"

"Something happened when he was in Syria, then Elvis died right in front of him. He's been…we've been struggling since then. I don't–" I'm not even sure why I'm telling him this much but the words cut-off anyway when I think of Georgie and I have to fight back tears again.

"I can't talk about this, please don't keep asking!"

The car rolls to stop, and we're outside the hotel."

"I thought you said you needed to know where to go?"

"I'm a Special Forces nob, of course I knew where we were going. Particularly since this is the nearest decent hotel to the barracks."

"Ex-Special Forces, from what I heard, but I agree, you're probably still a nob."

"I'm obviously not doing things right if I'm only _probably_ a nob. Look, as much as I always enjoy the Dawesey brand banter, if you want to make this a clean get away before your number one fan a.k.a. Colonel Beck tries to stop us, I suggest you get packed and back out here fucking sharpish.

"My mobile is switched off, but that radio"–he nods towards the radio built into the dash board– "is not. It won't take him long to work it out you've done a runner when he comes looking for you after he's sorted out Golden Boy.

"Get changed back into uniform. There's a Hercules flight out in just over an hour. I'll get you onto that. Do you have a car at Brize?"

"No, I travelled up with Colonel Beck."

"I'll arrange a Duty car to collect you and take you home."

"Thank you, Bones."

I climb out and turn to close the door. He catches my wrist, stopping me.

"You're strong Molly. You'll be okay." I nod because absolute every part of me really bloody wants to believe that he's right.

 **ooOOoo**

I let myself in with my key. When the door slams behind me, the house is oppressively silent. It used to full of laughter and love. All it is now are empty rooms which are showroom clean thanks to our cleaner, but lacks the warmth and welcome of a house that has been live in recently. The pictures on the wall are ours, the throw over the sofa is one that I picked, the ridiculously oversized and even more daftly named leather cuddle chair the Charles insisted we had to buy with the three-seater sofa is also ours. All of this stuff that fills the house is ours, but it doesn't feel like home anymore.

I don't linger in the living room, instead heading to the kitchen to the washing machine, where I dump my bag to sort out later before heading to the spare room that he uses for an office. This is where I begin my search. I'm looking for evidence that the fear on his face, when I left, has me convinced I'm going to find.

His luggage and laptop from Belize, apart from his Bergen which was delivered to the hospital, have been put by his desk. It doesn't take me long to find the notepad in which he keeps his passwords. Then I'm into his email.

Afterwards I check his desk drawers, paperwork, shelves and luggage before I move through to his bedroom to continue my search.

ooOOoo

Two hours later and I find myself curled up in a ball on his bed around a pillow that still faintly smells like him and sobbing with relief and sadness. There is no smoking gun regarding him and Georgie to be found. No hidden phone, no salacious emails or letters, nothing. All I have found is evidence that my husband has been silently unravelling personally and professionally for months.

Scathing emails from the Brigadier regarding his after-action reports following Nepal and Afghanistan. The Board of Enquiry result regarding Elvis's death which he never mentioned attending.

Correspondence from Army HQ, chasing him to confirm his ability to attend a promotional board. I guess all his extra hours running in the opposite direction from his homelife and head first into work had reaped rewards. They wanted to consider him for promotion to Major. He seemed to have been dodging it, much like he'd been dodging me.

It didn't take much guessing for me to conclude why. As a Captain he would spend time with his men and her. As a Major, he'd been removed from that, and potentially moved to another regiment.

His email yielded correspondence regarding a potential move to Pirbright into a two-year training secondment which would have seen him teaching baby officers based between Pirbright and Sandhurst. It also gave me his reply in which he'd turned it down without ever discussing it with me.

I'm not sure why that particular discovery has left me feeling worse. That he turned down a long-term UK based role of the type that he'd, at one time, been pushing so hard for me to take. Or that it could be taken as further evidence that he's been making choices to ensure that they stayed together.

My mobile starts buzzing again, and I pull it out. Charles' number shows on the screen. I let it go to voicemail like the rest of the upwards of fifteen calls he sent since I left the hospital. The phone chirps, indicating he's left another voicemail which I don't have the strength to listen to any more than I have had to listen to the others.

I sit myself up, dragging my hands through my loose hair so it's tucked behind my ears. I need to get a grip before somebody gets sent to knock down the door or Colonel Beck sets the RMP out to find me.

 **ooOOoo**

She answers quickly, the dull roar of the kids in the background confirms that my timing is about perfect for a call that I want to be cut short. The kids are running riot as they're just home from school.

"Mum?"

"Molls? What on earth is going on Charles called looking for you and he was in somethin' of a state. Said you'd flown home but he couldn't get a hold of you. He was frantic, if I'm honest. He normally so, I don't know…together or somethin'."

"I'm sorry about that. We're going through stuff at the moment. He shouldn't have worried you."

"Where are you then, barracks?"

"No, I'm in the house in Bath."

"What's going on, Molls? It ain't like you and Charlie to be at odds with each other. Him being ill and in hospital, and all, why would you shoot off like that?"

"It complicated, Mum. I don't– I can't speak about it just now–" Hard as I try, I'm sure she can hear the tears that are sliding down my face in my voice.

"Oh, Molls. You know you can come home anytime you want, don't you? Come home, well talk about. I'm sure we can sort it out somehow. He a good man, he loves you and he's worried. I could tell that much from his voice. Sounds about in as much of a state as you are."

"I needed a bit of space, to think. So, came home earlier. He be being flown home soon."

"Do you want me to call him, tell him you're at home. He sounded–"

"No, please no. I just need some time to think, without visitors. I might book a hotel or something, to get away for a couple of nights. I've not really thought it out. I'm jet lagged to hell, and my heads all over the place. I just need some time to get myself together, please Mum."

"Molls, what's he done?"

"I can't–"

"Ok, Molls, your old enough to know what you need. Promise me you're okay?"

"I'm not going to do anything stupid, promise. I just need to get out of this house, it's suffocating me. All the memories."

"I'm just gonna get some clothes together, take the car and book a couple of nights away. I'll be okay once I have had some space and chance to think. I promise."

"I love you, Molls, you know that. We're here if you need us, ok?"

"Thanks, Mum. I love you to."

"If he calls again, in fact if anyone calls. Can you please tell them you've heard from me and I'm fine? Just that, nothin' else."

"His mum called earlier, said she was worried about you. Do you want me to call her back, in case she tries the house?"

"Shit…"

Crap, I hadn't thought of that. As much as I love her, I wasn't in any way ready to deal with my mother-in-law visiting.

"Can you give me an hour to get going, and then give her a call? I not ready to speak to anyone…"

"Whatever you need Molls."

ooOOoo

"Colonel Beck? It's Molly James."

"Molly? Thank God, where are you. I tried to catch you at the airport but you were already on the flight."

"I'm okay, and back in the UK."

"You know that Charles was frantic after you left, they had to sedate him. He threatened to leave the hospital to go after you. Have you called him?"

"No."

"Molly." He voice is scolding.

"I spoke to Emily about your recovery and her journey and that. She told me I had to remember to look after myself. To set boundaries. He crossed one of my boundaries by calling Lane, I can't… I just need some time to think."

"Are you at home, in Bath? Can I tell him that much at least?"

"I'm here now, but I'm not staying. I can't stay in the house. It's–"

"Stifling?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"It was the same for me at home when Emily moved out with the girls."

"Maybe you can understand why I need some time to think?"

"I do, Molly. I'm just worried about you. I'd feel better if I knew where you were going."

"I'm gonna stay in a hotel."

"Can you at least text me when you're settled?"

"Yes, I can do that."

"What should I tell, Charles?"

Tell him I know about the role in Pirbright and the promotion board he's been avoiding, and tell him after today I understand why. Tell him calling her, while keeping me out of the way broke another part of me that I couldn't afford to break. Tell him I hate him, tell him I love him, tell him to go to hell.

I rub my hand across my face. For someone who doesn't really want to talk, my brain has rather a lot of words to throw at my husband via his Commanding Officer. Of course, I don't ask that, instead I say, "Tell him I said I needed some space and that I think he owes me that much."

"Molly." He says my name almost on a sigh. Like he's disappointed in me maybe. I don't know. From my point of view, there are no winners in this and he's stuck in the middle. I need space. Time to think. If he is judging me that's his right. Doesn't mean I have to take any notice of it… but it still stings.

"Please just tell him I said I needed some space." I pause, then ask what I probably shouldn't _need_ to know, but I can't help it, I need to know. "When are they flying him out?"

"He's already left on a Medivac. I'm travelling back with Two Section in forty-eight hours."

"And Lane?"

"She'll fly back with Two Section."

"Is he still going to the Queen Elizabeth in Selly Oak?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"I'm worried about you, Molly."

"I know, I'm sorry but I had to do this. For me."

"Text me when you get settled for the night."

I will, I promise."

 **ooOOoo**

I spent the rest of day at Laugharne, sitting in the grass where Smurf and his brother's ashes were spread, and down by the shore line. Walking and thinking with my memories, doubts and insecurities for company as the wind whips through my loose hair and leaves my cheeks red with wind burn.

His mother called me in the end. I answered her second call. It wasn't an easy conversation. Full of politely unasked questions and carefully worded statements. They love me. They're here for me if I need them. Please let them know when I'm ready to come home.

Brains texted. I tell I'm at home in the UK and not to worry about me.

Emily texted, then Jacs. I tell them both I'm okay. Not to worry, I'll let them know where I'm staying later.

By the time I return to the car I've still no clear idea where I'm heading. I just drive.

 **ooOOoo**

Another dark room that smells of antiseptic, closed windows and dry air heating. He's awake, when I walk in, his eyes red rimmed and huge in his pale face as they track my movement from the door to the side of his bed silently.

"You came back."

I sit down on the bed, and watch as his hands pluck nervously at the starched white sheet folded neatly across his bare chest.

"Why?" he asks, his voice flat. His body language is like a cowering dog. It's like he's waiting to be kicked.

"I said I would get through this with you. I meant what I said."

"You left. You promised you stay then you left."

"You called _her._ "

"I needed to set thing straight between us."

"I don't care or want to know. She has no part in this conversation as far as I'm concerned."

"You wanted honest between us?"

I've confused him, but it doesn't matter. I'm here for one topic of conversation and only one. I need to understand why this started. Georgie is a symptom of the problem, how it started, why it started is the beginning of the cure.

"I don't understand." he says softly, voice wavering slightly. "I lied when you asked for honest. I lie of omission, perhaps, but still a lie. Why are you here?"

"Because I need to be here."

"Can I hold you? Please, Molly? I need to hold you."

His hand stretches out tentatively towards mine where it's sitting by my side. I pull it back into my lap, like contact with his skin might sting. The look of devastation on his face at my perceived rejection does sting, but I can't help it. I'm not ready for him to touch me.

"I do need honesty from you Charles, but not about Lane. I need you to tell me about Louisa McNeil."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight – Story Telling**

* * *

 _True remorse is never just a regret over consequence; it is a regret over motive._

 _-_ _ **Mignon McLaughlin**_

* * *

"I want you tell me about Louisa McNeil."

He looks like a man on fire, tense, pained, trapped. My handsome, wounded husband who's been hiding secrets behind those anxious eyes for too long. Head downturned, he stares at his hands in his lap and turns his wedding ring around and around on his long, elegant finger. It's a familiar, nervous habit. I wonder if it gives him comfort.

"Look at me please, Charles. I _need_ you to talk to me about Louisa McNeil. Nothing you say is gonna make me leave or love you any less. I will stay with you afterwards, or leave you alone if that's what you need, but what I need is for you to tell me about Louisa."

His eyes lock on mine, large and dark–pupils blown wide with stress. His fingers creep towards mine across the bright white of the neatly folded sheet. The movement is slow, hesitant, like he's expecting to be rejected. I meet him half way, threading my fingers through his as he snatches up my hand, pressing his lips against it with a soft murmur of my name.

He swallows, takes a deep breath then starts talking and his voice is far from steady.

"I was asked to take command of a platoon from a Scottish regiment that was working with us on refugee relief duties that day. Their CO and had come down with a nasty strain of stomach bug. I didn't think anything of it, just got on with the task in hand.

"I left Two and Three Section at the refugee camp with Kingey to carrying on working, got on a truck to travel back to barracks with several sections from the Scottish regiment in a three-truck convoy.

"A boy, not much older than Sam pushed a barrow out in front of the middle truck, and knocked it over. I found out later that the driver was inexperienced, not long out of stage two. He didn't anticipate the danger in stopping.

"I didn't know the men I was leading that afternoon. If I'd thought about it… if I'd taken time to find out, I'd have taken a more experienced driver." He trails off, visibly upset. "The driver got out and the boy blew himself up taking the driver and the front half of the truck with him.

"McNeil was the Medic for her Section. Young, spirited, she reminded me of you the first time I heard her rinsing someone out for some remark or other at camp. Her CO thought highly of her, thought she had some maturing to do but that she'd grow into good soldier.

"She got out of the truck behind and went to help. I ordered her to take cover, to wait out until we'd secured the scene. While she was trying to get to a casualty, a sniper took her out along with two of the survivors who got out of the wreckage. She was shot through the neck."

"The same injury as Geriant?"

He nods, wiping a tear away with the back of his hand.

"We returned fire, killed the bastard, but it was too late. She bled out under my hands."

"Back in the UK, I insisted on meeting her family with her CO. Two strangers stood in front of me at that dreadful meeting and all I saw were Dave and Belinda standing there while I told them I'd lost you.

"Back home, the nightmares I used to have about being shot on the bridge came back. But this time it was you that Badrai shot in a hundred different ways. No matter what I did, how I tried to kill him or save you, you always died under my hands. Always.

"I thought they would calm down because they always had before, but they didn't. It left me feeling unsettled and exhausted. I woke up again and again with a sense of dread about the day ahead with too many thoughts my head. About Louisa, you, other people I'd lost under my command.

"I started to worry... it became an obsession in fact…how dangerous your job was, how many different ways I could lose you.

"I couldn't shake off how easily Louisa life had been snuffed out. It got mixed up in my head…her, you. Remembering you and that mine field…the explosion, clouds of dust, then an eternity of silence until you responded and I knew you were okay. Bashari, the bomb. It all kept going around and around in my head.

"Every day became this exhausting exercise in pushing down what I knew were irrational anxieties in the hopes that they'd stop. It was a fool's bloody errand.

"I tried to logic it away. To find a way to manage the risk…to take control. I thought if protected you better, you'd be safe. That the anxiety I was feeling would settle, and we'd be okay.

"I didn't recognise what I was doing it at the start. The need to know where you were all the time, trying to persuade you to take a UK based role. The hovering, need for constant contact. I thought I was protecting you, what I was actually doing was smothering you.

"I'd get anxious every single time you left the house. The more anxious I got, the more worried I was that I was going to lose you, the tighter I tried to hold on and I could see you were chaffing under the pressure of it. It became this ridiculous inescapable cycle of nightmares and dark thoughts and you were caught in the middle not knowing why I was being such difficult bastard to live with.

"After we had that dreadful argument about you going on Tour because of the Ebola outbreak, I tried to back off. To ease off and give you more space and I somehow left you feeling rejected. Everything I touched just seemed to fuck up. I knew I was the problem.

"I went on Tour to Nepal and I tried to throw myself into the work. I thought I was getting my head back on straight, but we ended up in Afghan. Even then I tried to tell myself it was going to be okay. I felt more comfortable here. I knew this place, these people. Trusted Azizi and had Elvis with me. I let myself relax into it. I was tense but better focused and thought my head was getting back into the right space finally.

"Then Elvis… Molly, I can't…"

His voice cracks as he sobs and I can't stand the distance any more. I move closer and he winds his arms round me tightly, his face against my neck and hands fisting the material of my t-shirt against my back. He's trembling in my arms.

"I'm here. I'm here." I murmured, rocking with him as I feel his tears, cool and damp, against my skin.

I break with him, because his pain is mine. We both lost Elvis. I wanted to be able to absorb him into my very skin to protect him from his own vulnerability. Openly crying with him, I hold him even tighter.

"It should have been me, not Elvis. I didn't listen to Richards when he said she saw Azizi speaking to the guy on the motor bike, I didn't listen to my own doubts when Azizi tried to get me to pull out of the mission. I thought he was fatigued after too long a war, doubting himself like I was. I projected myself onto Azizi, and missed opportunities to save him."

I wanted to argue with him. Tell him that there is no way any of that was his fault, but that isn't my role in this. Emily's advice was clear. I need to let him talk, not tell him what to feel or think, because his version of reality regarding the situation is real to him. I need to listen and support without judging or preaching but it's bloody hard, to hear him lay the blame on himself and feel the physically effect of the costs of that blame in his struggling breathing and shuddering muscles.

"It should have been me that got blown off that building."

I can't say the words, but I tighten my arms around him in complete, silent denial of what he's saying as he continues to talk, in a rushed anxious voice, the weight of the world in his words.

"Jesus, the sound of his body hitting the concrete. The way Lane tried to resuscitate when I knew he was already dead. His burns, blood…her tears, screaming. We had to pull her off of him. I don't even know how I functioned afterwards. It's a fucking blur, if I'm honest.

"Then I got home and it all escalated. Nightmares, flashbacks. I think I eventually started detaching myself all together because it became unbearable.

"I'd watch you and Sam playing, finding amusement in something simple and I'd have to fake it because I couldn't feel it anymore. I'd see you watching me, knowing that something wasn't right and I'd worry that you'd start asking question, and work out how broken I'd become and I'd withdraw more. Hiding I guess, I don't honestly know why.

"Holding you, touching you became difficult because I felt like such a fucking fraud. Not offering affection seemed better than you receiving it from the fraud I'd become. But I still wanted your attention. Every kiss that I couldn't instigate but you could I took from you willingly because I was starving for you. We shared a home and a life. You were right there in front of me and I missed you every bloody day.

"Work became the only thing that made sense, and even that went to shit. I started second guessing myself. Doubting my decisions, questioning my ability to lead.

"The night I stopped sleeping in our bed, I had a nightmare that we were back on that bridge. Badrai was shooting and my gun jammed, like with Azizi. The only thing I had to fight him off were my hands. You were on the floor bleeding, and he kept coming, and coming. I woke up about to put my hands around your throat.

"You woke up with me hovering over you, sleepy and confused and reached your arms up to me and said it was going to be okay. I nearly strangled you in your sleep and all you wanted to do was hold me and make things okay. That was the last night we made love.

"I knew I should have left you at that point, but I needed you too much and couldn't bear the thought of having to tell you how far I'd fallen. Part of me still needed you to see me the way I used to be, not the anxious broken failure of a man I'd let myself become.

"You of course caught up with my bullshit, and called me on it. I was a bastard to you that night. The things I said to you, my father. You were just trying to save me from myself. You were so bloody tenacious in the face of my denial and I was scared you were going to leave in the end.

"I could see the effect it was having on you, that it was making you unhappy. I thought by being away from home, I'd at least spare you some of the tension.

"I went on tour to Nigeria and I found myself looking at Georgie and seeing you in her. Dealing with her recklessness, and seeing more ways to lose you through your job. Everything just spiralled. It felt like I was free falling down a dark tunnel, tumbling and tumbling with no fucking way to escape.

"The further I forced myself away from you, the dark everything became. You were my only light and I was pushing you away deliberately.

"The night before I left for Belize. That final dreadful argument when you told me if I wasn't strong enough to get help, then I'd need to leave you and gave me your rings. I thought I'd finally lost you, because I knew I wasn't strong enough to do what you were asking.

"In Belize, the morning before we went into the jungle, I was hauled up in front the Brigadier and told in no uncertain terms how shit an officer I'd became. The investigation into Elvis' death, my report saying that Elvis and Georgie had been emotionally involved. He used that as a reason to called her into the office and gave her a dressing down as well. The look in her eyes, she genuinely hated me. I started to imagine that same expression on your face, if I kept dragging down with me anymore. It was my fault. I'd let it all slip through my fingers, and this was what I deserved.

"The bore trap, the fever. Everything in the jungle just went to shit. Georgie just kept on coming up with solutions to impossible problems while dragging my dead weight along with her.

"The fever…I kept seeing you, but it was always Lane. My thoughts we so fucking muddled. I told her about us, me, how'd let it all slip away. That is was my fault that Elvis died.

"She told me that she dreamed about him and that life without him didn't make any sense to her. I realised she'd lost everything, too, the way I'd lost you. She'd been through the same experience as me and understood what it cost…the despair…

"I asked her…suggested that we might be able to…I'm sorry, so sorry."

I can guess what he did, it's the only reasonable explanation for why Georgie would turn up at his bedside and Beck would have suspicions that they were drifting towards crossing lines. He offered himself as a replacement for Elvis.

He buries himself closer against my neck as he struggles to snatch breaths around his sobs. I make him look up and hold his face gently.

"I don't care about any of that."

"I offered to start a relationship with Georgie because I thought I'd lost you." he says, eyes black with pain.

"I still don't care."

"Why? You should hate me..."

"You were wounded, in the middle of a jungle thinking that your life back home was fucked and you were likely to die. Fever, infection, PTSD with additional trauma because of an injury and you want me to accept your self-inflicted blame for what you said to Georgie? No way am I willing to let you take that blame."

"I don't bloody deserve you, Molly."

"What are you feeling right now?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do you feel right now? I need to hear the words."

"A shamed, guilty, out of control, weak."

"Why?"

"I'm an Officer. I'm not supposed to be like this. I'm supposed to be the one in control, the one who takes control. This doesn't happen to good officers…"

"That's bullshit and you in your right nut would know that. You're not less than you were, you just ill. Just because it's an invisible sort of disease doesn't make it any less real. You're a man first, Charles, then the officer. The man in you needs to heal so you can be the officer you want to be."

"How can you hear all I've done, all the ways I've fucked up and still see anything worth staying with, building a life with?"

"I spent the afternoon Laugharne before I came here–thinking. I realised one important thing. Sometime life too bloody short. I want my life, however long to be with you. Nothing you've said makes me see you any different, or love you any less. All I see is my husband, the man that I love, struggling, and all I want to do is support you, be with you through all of it. You can't scare me off that easy."

"I'm not the man that I was, Molly."

"I know who you are, you're the same man in here"–I touch the centre of his chest–"who has a wound here" – I touch his head, running my fingers through his hair, letting them settle at the back of his neck–"that needs to heal."

"Molly–"

I put my fingers over his lips, silencing what he was trying to say because I need him to hear this more than anything else.

"Maybe you will heal completely, or may not, but it won't make me love that version of you any less than this version and every other version you become until the day I die. I swear to you. Please believe me."

"I don't deserve you after all that I've put you through."

"You know me, Molly Dawes, queen of the lost cause since way back in Afghan. I'm not going anywhere, mate."

"No, you're Molly _James_ my beautiful brave wife. Who tried to save me even when I wouldn't save myself."

"But that was my main mistake, wasn't it? You have to admit that you need help before you can accept help. I understand that now. Trying to force you was the worst thing I could have done. I should have been there for you more, been more patient but I let my insecurities get the better of me and I tried to force the issue because I needed you to prove that you would pick me-us."

"And I left for Belize instead…"

"With my rings hanging around your neck. I think you choose me the best that you could at the time."

"I'm not going to make that mistake again. I'll get the help. Anything that gets us through this together. My career, the Army. None of it matters if I lose you."

"I'm with you one hundred percent. Don't ever doubt that."

 **ooOOoo**

I left to go to hotel after nine when he started to flag and nurse in charge of his case dropped by with a gentle suggestion that it was getting late.

A quick shower and change into PJs was about a much time as I could bare before I sent him the text message he requested confirm my safe arrival at a hotel. He asked to Facetime, which I'd been more than willing to do, but seeing the new anxiety on his face, I'm wishing I'd never left.

"Where are you?" he asks.

His tired face is softly lit by the light from his iPad, dark stubble more noticeable than usual against the pale pallor of his too thin face. He's lying on his side facing his iPad, which I'm assuming he has propped up against the safety rail of his bed.

"A Travel Lodge off the M5. No need to go halves on this one, though. Single occupancy only." I'm curled up on my side on the bed, almost copying his position, but where his hospital room is mostly in darkness, I have the lights on here.

I can see from his expression that he understands my joking reference to our first date in Bath which seems lie a lifetime ago now.

"They haven't got any less boring since I last stayed in one." I move my phone camera around the beige walls, white bedding and ugly striped curtains, then turn it back to me.

His fingers stretch out towards his screen, as though he's trying to touch my face, even though I'm not in the room.

"I wish I was there with you. I've missed sharing a bed with you. The closeness."

"You had your reasons for stopping. I understand it now."

"I still miss it."

"Me too. Maybe once we've got some positive progress on that leg and counselling, we can work on that, too. I want you home."

"I'm still welcome then?"

"Always."

It's difficult to tell if he's joking or serious. He's been guarded with his words ever since the PTSD took hold. It makes him difficult for me to read in a way I never struggled before.

"I'm not sure I entirely deserve it, but there's nowhere else I'd want to be."

"I know I asked you to leave, but you know I never meant it. You were wasting away in front of me. I was desperate."

"You came back to me, Molly. I'll never doubt you–us–again. When I came to after the helicopter and you were there waiting… it was everything to me."

"You'll need to thank Colonel Beck for that. He was on a one-man mercy mission when he met me at Brize."

"We owe him a lot."

"But he owes you a lot, too, doesn't he?"

Charles looks surprised. "He told you about that?"

"Yes. Shared the whole story. Even suggested I spoke to Emily. A lot happened while you were away with the fairies, you lazy arse."

Suddenly he smiling, and it's bloody everything to see him smile again. I love him so much in that moment that actually hurts. The feeling is so intense.

"That's the second time you've called me that. God, but I've missed you and your bloody cheek."

"Plenty more where that came from." I reply, breaking off to yawn. "Sorry, I'm jet lagged to hell. I think it's finally catching up with me."

"You look exhausted."

"Well, not all of us had access to such quality drugs to sleep the days away. You're not looking too bright eyed and bushy tailed yourself. Maybe we should call it a night. Could you sleep if you tried?"

"Yes…" He almost looks embarrassed suddenly. A hint of unease in his eyes. "But I don't want to end the call. Could we…would you be okay if we stayed online. I'd like to fall asleep with you, if I may."

"As it happens, you're in luck. Decided to push the boat out with 24 hours of WIFI access for the budget busting price of £3. I didn't go for the breakfast option though. That seems like more than the joint account could cope with."

"My beautiful, irreverent spend thrift wife. What am I going to do with you?"

"Fall asleep with me now and have breakfast with me in the morning?"

"There is nothing I'd like better."

"Not like you've got many better options; do you, peg-leg?"

There it is again, that beautiful, warm smile of his. Lighting up his eyes in an aching familiar way I've missed so much.

"Even if I did, you'd still be my first option, every time."

"Goodnight, Charles. I love you."

"I love you, too. Goodnight."

* * *

 _Song for this one, Speaking A Dead Language– Joy Williams. Its very beautiful and very relevant to this story._


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine - Home**

* * *

 _We are cursed with the blessing of consciousness and choice, a two-edged sword that both divides us and can help us become whole. But choosing wholeness, which sounds like a good thing, turns out to be risky business, making us vulnerable in ways we would prefer to avoid._ _ **― Parker J. Palmer**_

* * *

It's my lunch break and I'm sitting outside on a patch of grass trying to catch some vitamin D with Emily while she is telling me a story about odd socks, twin girls and Colonel Beck's failed attempts to get his girls to help him with laundry. Apparently eleven-year-old girls didn't enjoy military style instructions when it came to clothes care.

It's ten weeks on from my rapid exit from Belize and Charles' arrival at the Queen Elizabeth hospital in Birmingham. His recovery has been amazing, benefited by being young and Army fit, and much praised by the team of Doctors and Nurses looking after him.

He was a rock star apparently, and a favourite in the unit in Birmingham. Lovely Captain James, posh, polite and charming. Course, it didn't hurt him looking the way he looks and then when he smiles... let's just say there were a few heartbroken ovaries left behind when he was moved to the medical unit at Frimley Park Hospital where his Orthopaedic Surgeon was primarily based.

That blood leg of his was the original comeback kid. Shot in Afghan, shattered in Belize and apparently broken during an Army versus Navy cadets Rugby match when he was a teenager. I'd warned him jokingly that if it misbehaved again, I'd chop it off myself. This joke, delivered in front of my lovely in-laws was met by shocked silence from both his parents and riotous laughter by Charles. Follow by an offer that he would pass me the saw himself–sick humoured git– but then I was no better. What else was there to do other than find humour at such a dark subject?

Emily is the middle of explaining why eleven-year olds, with better things to do, tried to argue that spots and stripes, as long as they were the same colour, _could_ being considered as matching socks. Despite their father's argument to the contrary.

"Of course, the socks were from a matching set in colour, not so much in pattern. Tom was trying to be so patient, but there was this vein on his forehead that kept thumping away. The more patient he tried to be, the more they argued, the fast that vein thumped." she said, grinning while sipping at her coffee.

My mobile starts ringing. I pull it out of the pocket of my scrubs. It's not a number I recognise.

"Do you need to get that?" Emily asked, leaning back on hands and turning her face up towards the somewhat cloud covered sun.

"It's probably just some marketing call." I say, rejecting the call and putting the phone down by the remains of my lunch. "So, how did the sock sorting end?"

"With a very frustrated husband, and lots of single socks hidden in both their rooms. God help him when they hit the teenage years, he might just have an aneurism."

"Well, with any luck, they won't be as bad as me. I was a bit of witch to my Dad when I was a teenager, but then, he was and still is a dick-head, so I suppose it was deserved."

"You, a stroppy teenager? Never." I raise my eyebrows just enough to set Emily off into giggles. "It's possible that I overheard you rinsing that paramedic this morning."

"Totally deserved. Teach him that someone telling him that married and not interested, do not mean that I was tryin' to play hard to get. Bell-end. He's married as well apparently."

"On the subject of married, how is your rather handsome husband settling in?"

"Fine. Looking forward to tomorrow and then cracking on with his Physio and rehab."

"And you?"

"His progress has been amazin' and getting all that metal work removed is a major milestone, but the thing he's ignoring is that it's another operation. His body has been through so much. I can't help it… I'm bricking it if I'm honest."

"Of course, you're going to be worried." Emily pauses for a moment. Draining the remains of her coffee while watching me with a bit of calculating expression. I can guess what's coming next. I've been ducking the subject for the past week.

"Have you talked to him about it yet?"

I think the fact that I'm sudden very interested in studying my feet answers for me. I mean, I know I need to but, fuck me, it's difficult. I've been putting it off because he's been doing so well, and the last thing I want is to throw a spanner in the works with news that can wait, as far as I'm concerned. One he knows, his guilt is going to be hurtful for both of us. I know I have a bit of my own style of eleven-year style 'sock logic' going on while avoiding this but it has felt necessary to me up to this point. Of course, my Commanding Officer and Emily have different views. 

"Molly." Emily's tone is scolding, and I know it's a bit deserved.

Charles has another operation to get through tomorrow with the removal of the bird-cage type metal work on the leg, post op recovery and then in-patient treatment at Headley followed by outpatient appointments. He is gagging to get cracking on his physio but less so on starting counselling. It's not that he's refusing to attend, but it is clear that with the first he is looking forward to getting stuck in, but the second is scaring him.

All I want is him home, even if home, initially, will be the rental flat his parents have arranged for us in Farnham. It is a sensible base for his parents and Sam when they visited and for work while I was seconded to Keogh Barracks in Aldershot. Bath was too far away to be a practically commutable, as much as we were both missing our actual house and home.

He'd already achieved small successes towards larger goals and come so far. I couldn't be prouder of him. The day he managed to transfer himself from his bed to a wheelchair with minimal assistance from his physio. I had been in floods of happy tears while he panted, sweat soaked from the physical effort, but smiling bright enough for his happiness to light the room. He amazes me in different ways every day.

In my more doubtful moments, I wonder sometimes if I might be his weakest link. It was just that it sometimes felt like we both still had a long journey to complete. I see the way he throws ever part of himself into his goals and it makes me unsure if I'm quite as brave as Charles when faced with the enormity of the task. He says I'm his greatest support. I worry sometimes that I might eventually hold him back, but that's all part of the mess in my own head. I do my best to make sure that he doesn't see any of it. My main focus is his needs, not my insecurities. All of that keeps feeding into my inability to tell him my news.

Charles hates being in hospital about as much as I hate him being here and his moods can be tricky not just because of the PTSD. Anxiety wise I would say he was back to his behaviour when he came back from Syria. I recognise it better now. He tries to hide his need to know where I am and when I will be back in his company. I make sure I do my best not to add to his anxieties by keeping in contact as much as possible. It means keeping my mobile with me even when working, but it is manageable. I even get some benefit from it twisted sort of way. His need for me, however unhealthy in its roots, helps me balance out the Georgie Lane shaped hole in my confidence. She remained, at my request, a taboo subject and would remain so until he was stronger and we were sitting in couples counselling.

Emily nudges me with her foot, snapping my attention back to the her and from the determined express on her face I know she's not going to let this go today.

"It's still in my locker. I've been struggling to find the right moment."

What I'm saying it's not a lie, but hearing myself say it out loud makes me realise that I'm being a coward to avoid it for so long. Normal husbands and wives would be able to talk about this sort of thing, but we're hardly normal at the moment.

"You need to tell him soon otherwise you'll lose the place on the course."

I know she's right, but I'm at the stage just now that I have to keep reminding myself that we are doing well. Even though there is a brown envelope with my exam results hidden like a dirty secret in my locker because I'm too worried about my husband's reaction to tell him something that he should have been celebrating with me months ago.

Emily continues to wait patiently for my reply, as I rub a tired hand over my face growing more frustrated with myself by the minute. I should have faced this by now. Instead I've been keeping busy, burying myself in work and looking after him and hiding from the fact that communication between us hasn't miraculously fixed just because I got him home to the UK safe. know my time is running out to keep hiding from this.

An email from my CO last night underlined that point even while I kept telling myself that it wasn't that I hadn't tried. The night of our last terrible fight, before he left for Belize, I'd ask him to make sure he was home on time. I cooked a nice dinner and waited with my offer letter from the Defence School of Healthcare Education ready to be handed over. As the hours passed, my happy expectations shrivelled and dried up like the meal that sat for too long in the oven waiting for his return.

He finally came home after eleven and we ended up fighting and me giving him my wedding ring. The subject of my place on the course was never spoken. My final A level results arrived his first week in Belize before his injury. Two years of sweat and tears now sat in my locker, and my CO wanted me to confirm my start date on the course that would see me change from Molly James, Combat Medic, RAMC to Molly James, Staff Nurse, QARANC after completing a Nursing degree.

"We've been through so much since the results arrived and we're still going through it… It just seems trivial by comparison."

"It's an important success for you. You should able to talk to your husband about it. Celebrate it with him, don't you think? At least give him a chance to celebrate it with you."

"I know, but we're still in this weird space where I feel like I've got him back, but I'm still walking on egg-shells. It was like we were living separate lives before his accident. Him not being available, emotionally has become such a habit that it feels wrong to talk to him about stuff that happened while he was distancing himself." I frown, trying to read Emily's expression to see if I'm making any sense. "I'm not sure I'm explaining it very well."

"You're trying to manage him. I did the same with Tom. I would try guess what his mood would be each time he returned from barracks. It took a while for me to realise it was impossible and pushing an even bigger wedge between us. I was trying to fix things for both us when he wasn't even ready to admit that there was a problem at that point."

"We're not there anymore though, are we? He's admitted that we have problems and wants to work on fixing things."

Fixing things. I hate that phrase. It suggests things between us are broken. I'd rather look on it as battered, maybe even bent but never broken. I need to believe that because the idea of us being broken scares me.

"That's not what I meant exactly. I'm trying to say that I think you're still trying to manage his mood as a suspect you were before he left for Belize. You have to let him do that for himself. Hiding things from him isn't good."

"I know."

I also know that making Georgie a forbidden subject is helping me hide from a big fat truth about my own insecurities around the whole subject of his _over_ involvement with Georgie bloody Lane. The screaming truth being that he was, by his own admission, over involved and I still can't quite settle me feelings on that yet.

I have a sense that he knows that I'm struggling with it and it's eating us both alive however much we are both hiding it with my requested silence.

"Molly?"

I look up and see the concern on Emily face. In a fairly short time we've formed a tight friendship. One of Emily's strengths is her ability to read people, and I suspect she can read me easier than most.

I sigh, not sure if I want to talk about this but knowing that I need to.

"He caught me checking his phone for messages from her yesterday. He was so gentle about it. Said he had nothing to hide, but I could see me needing to look hurt him. He's come through so much and I know he's trying… It's just… Fucks sake, I don't even know why I tried to do it in secret.

"If I'd asked him first, I know he'd have willingly handed it over to me. I believe him when he says he's sorry. That it was a mistake. I just can't stop thinking about what might have happened if I Colonel Beck hadn't got me over to Belize, or if he hadn't been wounded and realised were it was heading. It scares me. All the way I could have lost him."

"After I moved out, I forged Tom's signature on a mail redirect and checked all his post before dropping it off at the house. I knew his passwords, and used to check his email. While I was acting like a crazy woman, he was begging me to let us try again. Making all the right noises about wanting to go to couple's therapy. Even when I could see signs of him being his old self again, I couldn't stop myself looking for evidence to the contrary. It took six months before I agreed to try properly to rebuilding things between us and more than a year before I agreed to live together again."

"I'm sorry. Me talking about this is dragging all this back up for you."

"I doesn't matter because it's in the past. We got through it." Emily says with a reassuring smile.

"That's all I want. For us to be on the other side of it."

"You'll get through it. It just takes time. Being scared, insecure, it's all normal."

"I can see the end goal, it's just all the shit in between here and there that's scaring me."

"You need to build the trust between you again. The fact that he's not being defensive about letting you see his phone is good. It means he wants the same things as you."

"Yeah, I understand that. It was just the look in his eyes. I hurt him by going behind his back."

My mobile starts ringing again. The same number as before. My irritated mutter of 'do fuck off' as I decline the call again has Emily grinning.

"Persistent."

"Bloody annoying more like. I need to get going. I said I would drop in on him before going back on shift."

"Okay. What time's his op scheduled for tomorrow?"

"Early afternoon, though it depends how the Consultant's operating list runs, I guess."

"I'll drop in on you both tomorrow when I have a chance. I can ask Tom to stop in to see him tonight if you like? Let you get changed, get some dinner before visiting tonight."

"I think he'd like that."

"I was more thinking you might be needing a bit of breathing space?"

Typical Emily. Missing nothing.

"You might be right. It will give me time to work out how to tell him about my exam results and the course."

"That's my girl." Emily drags me up to my feet, grabs me in a quick hug and then we separating, lunch-time over.

He's asleep when I get to his room. The blinds drawn in the room making it dark an almost cosy despite the stark white walls and bedding. I shut the door quietly behind me, putting my bag of food goodies down before laying down by his side with my head on his shoulder and arm across his chest.

His arm comes up around my back, and he stretches sleepily underneath me.

"Molly?" he asks, voice sleep roughened.

"Who else would it be." I reply, trying to be funny, then kicking myself mentally at the unintentional double meaning. My first instinct is to be stupidly worried that he might take it as accusing, followed quickly my annoyance that I'm second guessing myself yet again. Just as Emily said I needed to stop doing.

I needn't have worried. I look up to see a lazy smile spread across his face, as his eyes open to meet mine. They're full of humour.

"Very amusing, Dawesey."

I stretch up and press a kiss to his lips, and his smiles widens. "I've missed you. Did you have a good lunch with Emily?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, I can't stay long, but I brought you a treat."

He turns towards the branded brown paper bag I put down earlier.

"Poncey coffee, panini and a doughnut. Figured you'd deserve it ahead of being nil by mouth soon for tomorrow."

"Thank you." He presses a kiss on my forehead as I reach to bring the bag of food into his lap. "Knew there was a reason I had the very good sense to fall head over heels in love with you."

"I guess I should compliment you on your good taste then, shouldn't I."

I slip off the bed, pull the over bed table across to him and open the blinds while he unpacks his lunch. The smell of his favourite mozzarella, pesto and tomato hot sandwich fills the room, but it's the black coffee that he attacks first with a groan of approval.

He holds his arm open to me in invitation, and I sit back down on the bed, tucked into his side as he eats single handed.

He seems so content and that makes me feel safe and happy, because in this moment he seems safe and happy.

In the short time I've got before I have to get back to work, we make small talk for a while as he eats. I happily chat away, telling him that Colonel Beck might visit tonight, and that his Mum was planning on bringing Sam over at the weekend once he's had a chance to recover a bit from this op.

He talks about looking forward to getting rid of what he calls his 'bloody metal art installation' and cracking on with getting out of the hospital and home with me. He's practically alive with the anticipation of it. Animated and happy and stretching for his goals.

I smile and tease and say I'm looking forward to that too. It's not that I'm lying about it, but it feels like I sort of am because all the while I'm trying not to look at my shoulder bag that I left lying on the floor, and the corner of the brown envelope that sticking out of the top of the bag.

I know what Emily said. I know what I said I would do, but how can I just now? So, I don't and the guilt of that nags at me when I leave him and head back to work, shoving the envelope deeper into the bag so I don't have to look at it as I stuff my bag back into my locker while feeling a bit shit about copping out yet again.

When my mobile starts ringing again with the same number, I'm about in the right frame of mind to give vent on somebody, unfairly or otherwise.

"Yes."

"Well hello to you, chicken." a male voice says with sarcastic amusement. "Nice to speak to you too."

"Bones?"

"The one and only."

"Thank God for small mercies. I don't think the world or the Army could deal with more than one of you."

"I thought you were such a nice, polite girl." he replies, trying to sound wounded.

"Right, and for your next piece of bullshit–"

His loud laughter cuts off my sarcasm mid-stream, but I'm enjoying the banter.

"Okay, fine. I'll cut the bollocks. We both know you're not a nice girl, don't we, chicken."

"Might make you right there, but why the fuck do you keep calling me chicken?"

"It's what your husband does professionally isn't it? Captain Mother Hen to his platoon. Thought it kind of fit that you'd be another chicken."

"With all due respect, Captain McClyde, please do fuck off."

"Ahh, Dawesey. I always enjoyed your lack of respect."

"Your welcome, now what the fuck do you want?"

"Wanted to check up on how you're Rupert was doing. I'm bring his useless shower down from Bulford to Pirbright for training soon before head off the Bangladesh. Some of them want to know if they can visit. They had a whip-round and have a card and teddy for him, or some such sentimental bollocks."

My heart about drops into my proverbial boots at the thought of who might be wanting to visit. _Shit, shit, shit..._

"Dawes?" Bones prompts, and I force myself to think around the irrational panic that has my heart rate suddenly flying.

"Yeah, he's doing much better, but he's having another op this week. Might be best if you give me a call again next week. Better if they don't just rock up."

"While what you're asking makes sense, I'm not the platoons fucking social secretary. Are you okay if I get one of the tossers from you former Section to call you directly?"

"Sure, that would work. As long as they call first."

"Wouldn't mind meeting you for a coffee in person, if you want."

"Yeah. I know what you mean by coffee, so that would be a no."

He laughs again, rich and loud and I find myself laughing too, but then that's the thing about Bones. He's such an unapologetically arrogant arse, that he's sort of likeable because of it.

"As if I would dream of hitting on the regimental golden boy's lovely, much younger, vulnerable in her time of need, wife–"

"Enough, Bones." I cut him off rudely but am smirking at his antics at the same time.

He laughs again, then his tone is suddenly serious, low and almost gentle, for Bones at least.

"I'm serious, Dawesey. I'll make myself free for coffee, with no strings, if you need to talk. I didn't like seeing you upset when you left. I'm a very good listener when I need to be."

"I'll think about it." I reply. "Are you being nice to my former Section, or is that a stupid question?"

"Totally stupid question."

"I thought so. Look, I need to get back to work, but thanks for letting me know."

"Anything for my favourite, Tequila Queen." he replies, "I'd say pass my regards onto your Rupert, but we'd both know I don't mean it."

I roll my eyes. Stands to reason he wouldn't manage to park his inner dickhead for long.

"Bye, Bones. It's been a pleasure as always."

He's salacious laughter at my unintended double meaning is the last thing I hear before he ends the call.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten – A Body Shaped Bump In The Road**

* * *

 _The truth is rarely pure and never simple._

 ** _―_** ** _Oscar Wilde_**

* * *

"Join the Army, see the world. Wasn't that the slogan? Can you explain to me how that works when today I'm clipboard-woman on a wet Wednesday in Frimley?"

Emily laughed, thanking the person behind the counter with a smile as he handed over a latte before joining the queue to pay.

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."

"Large Vanilla Latte please." I say, dragging a smile out of somewhere for the man serving. Not an easy task given my sour mood this morning.

"I was doing fine until I got assigned to the Physio Department and issued with the clipboard. I'm a trained Combat Medic and they're using me like a glorified receptionist.

"Actually, can I have a large black coffee as well. Thanks."

"But does the receptionist have a clipboard?"

Coffees in hand I follow Emily to the till to pay.

"No, but what's that got to do with anything?"

"Then you're a step up from the receptionist in stationary terms, aren't you?"

Money exchanged, I roll my eyes at her. "I'm on a shitty placement, admit it."

Right there I admit to myself that I'm lying by omission because my shitty mood isn't really about where I'm working this week. It has absolutely everything to do with me being full of a growing list of emotional mines that I'm more invested in avoiding than able to find the courage to speak to my husband about because I'm scared that his answers might break more things between us than heal. We're stuck together just now with denial and a lot of avoidance, and it a flimsy sort of fix.

"Maybe, but you need rounded experience. It will be could for your course at BCU."

"I suppose."

"I was never fan of eyeballs. Surgical rotation on that service."

Emily pulls a cute little yuck face. Mind you, with the blond curls and freckles and pretty sure should could look cute in about any situation.

"It was grim, but it's not as though you can say sorry, I know I'm a doctor, but I just don't fancy working with eyeballs, is it?"

"Have you met the head Physio? Mrs We-have-a-muscle-emergency, who has a habit of looking down her rather large schnoz at me."

"You know how important physio is for patients going through rehab. You are being a bit of a brat. As for Valerie, she does that the everyone."

"Me and the clipboard won't take it personally then."

"That's the spirit. Where are you off to now?"

"Spend some time with Charles, then back to it. The clip board misses me if I stay away too long."

"The clip board…right. I'm off at four then I'm taking the girls to the outlaws for tea. So, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, bye."

I take the stairs because ward work isn't the same as P.T. and I'm not finding the time to run enough at the moment. Work, Charles, sleep and not much outside of those three more than fill my days.

Two coffees in hand, I catch the handle on his room door with my elbow, and shove the door open with my behind.

Backing up into the room I call out to him, "I brought you supplies, Captain Sicknote. You can tell me how much you love me later."

I turn to find Charles absent but the room in definitely not empty.

"What the actual fuck are you doing here?"

 **ooOOoo**

Gotta love life and it's way of chucking a grenade in your path just when you least expect it. One minute you're on a coffee run and **_bam_** you're sitting across a table from your husband's emotional other-woman.

We're in the staff room on the second floor. I need somewhere more private than the café downstairs but still with other people around because, in my current mood, I'm not sure I might not throw punch. Of course, I keep telling myself I won't but my angry inner-teenager is very willing to obliged Georgie with a large dentist bill.

She sitting with her hands wrapped around a plastic cup of coffee flavoured tar from the vending machine. Perfect nails tapping against the ridges on the cup's surface. They are like mine, kept short and neat. Then I realise two things as she splays then clenches her fingers around the cup. One, that's she's sporting a French manicure, oh to have the time to be so bloody groomed, and two she nervous. Tight mouthed, nervously fidgeting with her drink type nervous and her lack of comfort in my presence is making my inner bitch really bloody pleased.

"What are you doing here?"

"I had a card from the lads. Thought I'd drop it off."

"They don't have stamps up in Burford then?"

"We're at Pirbright training, actually."

As if that makes a flaming difference. Her turning up here unannounced would be a bit like me rocking up to the Brigadiers house for tea and crumpets. Ten miles passed the line that marked acceptable and she bloody knows it.

"And they don't have stamps in Pirbright either?"

She pulls a little face. Lips tight, eyelids blinking a little bit too fast. "I didn't think Char–"

The power of the bitch stare with head tilt stops her, lucky for her, because if I hear the words Charlie leave her lips I not gonna be responsible for what I say next.

"I didn't think Captain James would mind." she says, self-correcting herself awkwardly.

Your right, you didn't think. About appropriateness, about the way things are done, about the fact that he's a married man, but then neither did he.

"Bones phoned me asking about arrangements for visitors." I'm enjoying the look of surprise on her face that I know her CO, never mind know him well enough to have conversations. "I said they should call first."

"Look, I'll just leave the card with you. I can see this isn't a good time."

Georgie moves to stand, but I grab her arm before she has a chance to leave. "Sit. Now."

She yanks her arm out of my hands and sits with a challenging tilt of her chin. "I'm sitting, what is you want say to me?"

"I don't blame you for what he said in the Jungle, or for even for maybe wanting what he offered. You lost Elvis and I can't even imagine how you get up every morning and keep going coping with the weight of that lose.

"Look Molly…"

"I do blame you for crossings lines between your ranks and not doing your jobs. I blame you _both_ for that. He ain't Charlie to you or anyone else other than Elvis. He's your Captain, you're his Medic. It was your job to notice and report he was struggling for the safety of your platoon, and his job to admit he was suffering and step down from operational duties for the safety of himself and his men.

"You were both epic fucking fails at that. I was, too, for letting him hide in his bloody job for so long. The only person that's had his head screwed on right in this whole sorry shitty situation is Colonel Beck, and even he got too emotionally involved in some respects."

"So what are you saying, that I crossed lines? I'm not sure I understand where you're going with this, Molly. He and I have always been friends from before we ever worked together."

"You mean before the wedding that wasn't? You were his best friend's future wife, not his friend. After Elvis screwed up his life, he chose Elvis, you weren't even a blip to either of us. That's as far as it went. I was there Georgie. You can't re-write stuff to fit your version of the story."

"He came looking for me to join Two Section."

I've no idea why I'm letting this descend into a game of who's got the closest connection, because I'm going to win. It's tempting to flash my wedding ring at her– but unnecessary– because I've got the truth on my side.

"You want to know why he ask you to be is Medic before Kenya? Elvis. New Year's night in Royal Crescent, a bottle of Malt and drunk off his face maudlin Elvis. I was sat between them on the sofa when Elvis asked and Charles promised he'd keep an eye on you for him."

I've surprised her. It's clear on her face.

"You two together have a bond with losing, Elvis. Wasn't that what he said? Yeah, he told me everything by the way. Or what he remembers around the fever at least. I don't disagree there's a bond, but it's toxic for both of you."

"You're making it sound like I pursued him."

"That's thing though isn't it? I've no way to know. Since you've seemed more than a bit on edge everytime I've seen you; I think it's fair that I'm suspicious. Then you turn up here today. Put yourself in my shoes."

"It's more complicated than that."

"I've got time, explain it to me."

"In Belize we both got hauled up in front of the Brigadier over the results of the board of enquiry about Afghanistan. I was given a dressing down. Too emotionally involved to function after Elvis died. He put that in his report…I was angry with him afterwards.

"In the jungle he tried to tell me off for getting emotionally involved when I was treating the mother of a local boy. It wasn't really about that. There'd been a bad atmosphere simmering between us since the meeting. He said I was emotionally involved, I said he knew something about that with you and him. Then he said it was his fault, too. That he'd crossed a line because of Elvis with his feelings for me and that Elvis dying was his fault."

"And you needed someone to blame. I am right?"

" _He_ ignored Richards when she saw Azizi being suspicious. Trusted Azizi–"

Suddenly she's on fire with her words and every protective instinct in my wants to shoot her down.

"What? Trusted an ally of more than three years. Wouldn't you? What he did was human, Georgie."

"If he'd listened. If Azizi hadn't be on the mission to the compound Elvis would never have had to be on that building in Kabul with that bomb in the first place. So, yeah, in that moment while he was laying there blaming himself, I blamed him too because I needed someone to blame. I needed it. But it's never that bloody simple is it?

"When he was feverish, he kept thinking I was you. The look in his eyes when he realised you weren't there. Like he'd lost everything that mattered to him. I looked at him and he was the same as me–lost– and I couldn't blame him anymore.

"Later he tried to say that we both had lost everything, but maybe we could have something together. But that's what you do, when you drowning isn't it– try to find a way to survive. That's what I was to him then; something to hold onto but you were the one he kept calling out to.

Just like, the fire is gone, as she sighs, leaning back in her chair like she's got the weight of the world on her shoulders.

"You can accuse me a number of ways of messing up, but I've never pursued your husband, Molly."

I not sure what to say to her. Thank you? For being honest, for not taking what he offered. One thought keeps circling in my head: they'd never had a chance to explore it, had they? Tom Becks actions in getting me here stopped that, but what if I'd not been here. If the distance and miscommunication between Charles and I had kept me away, what then? I don't know that I've got a clear enough head to think about that right now.

"I don't know what's gonna happen to Charles after he gets out of hospital. He may never return to operational duties, or even full fitness, or he might. He might even go back to the Regiment and Two Section. But I do know he can't go back to working with you or you with him."

"Let me guess, you want me to transfer."

"One of you needs to move, and I'd suggestin' that he's saved your recently developed reckless neck enough times for it to be you."

"I might have known you'd find a way to make this my fault."

"Are your ears not working properly? I told you, I blame you both but he's earned the option to be able to go back to his boys if he wants. The meeting with the Brigadier. He got hauled over the coals and a black mark on his record because a humanity mission went Pete Tong. Not you. Beyond reporting your relationship with Elvis, as you and Elvis should have done without needin' Charles to do it for you, he took all the blame. I suspect he's been covering up more for you. He's earned your transfer papers."

"What about what he said in the jungle, him pushing for a relationship. How'd that look in my report?"

"You can let your anger get the better of you. Blame him, file a report. Even claim he was inappropriate. I don't think it will go anywhere but you could do it. A man dying from onset of sepsis, with a ranging fever and no morphine raves while running a fever, sure that muds bound to stick.

"Fuck-sake, Georgie. Do you hear yourself. The poison that's coming out of your mouth? This ain't you in your right nut. You must know that."

I'm not sure if it's what I'm saying, or the grip I've got on her arm again, but she seems to shake herself mentally. Like something cleared in her head or something. She pushes my hand away, and sits back in her seat, like she distancing herself somehow.

"You're right, I'm sorry. I don't mean that. I'm not even sure why I said it. Nothing has made fucking sense since Elvis died. I don't know what's going around in my head sometimes."

It's there in her eyes–the weight of her loss– and despite myself I feel sorry for my former friend.

"I look at you Georgie, and think how I would be if I lost Charles, and I can't find the words to explain how much just the thought terrifies me. l can't get my head around the hell it must be for you being without Elvis. I see what carrying on costs you and I hurt for you. I do.

"You and Charles _do_ have a bond because of Elvis. He died tragically, too soon, and it was a fucking waste to the world of a bloke that had a huge heart and a lot of courage. None of that changes the fact that he's gone and you've no connection with Charles without Elvis. It's gone, anything that you had together and you need to make sure that it stays gone. For both your sakes.

"What if we both need that connection?"

"You're a threat to my family, Georgie. I can't have that."

"I saved his life in that jungle."

"No, you both put each of your lives in danger in that jungle. Him by taking a short cut and you by trying to be a hero. You cited medical need when we both know you had a Section full of able-bodied men to move your injured CO to a safe space where the radios would work. Of course, Kingey should have had the balls to knock you back into line where you should have been but I suspect that just more evidence of thing going wrong in that Section with Charles being ill."

"Can't you see, carrying on like this isn't good for either of you?"

"He called me at the hospital. Asked me to come. That wasn't my doing."

"I know."

"What he said in the jungle wasn't fair. Putting those thoughts in my head. He crossed the line."

"I won't defend what he did. It was wrong."

"After we got back to barracks, all I heard was how 'our Molls' was here, flown in by the Colonel to her wounded husband side. Molly James the model wife and Medic come to save the day and all I could think was it wasn't fucking fair, because you'd thrown him away. Why did you get a second chance that I could never get?

"Protected by the Colonel, a legend to Two Section. What do I get? Reamed out in a corridor for answering a phone call. Brains looking at me like I'm something not be trusted, it's not–"

There is an explosion of sound from the other side of the room of metal cake tin and smashing china falling on to the floor and the scrape of chairs as people move out of the way of spilt drink while laugh at somebody at the table's klutziness. It made me jump, I'll admit it but it's had an altogether bigger effect on Georgie.

She's on her feet. Eyes wide and pupils black with stress, hand reaching to her side for her non-existent rifle. I've served long enough to recognise the movement in colleagues.

"Georgie, it's okay." I reach to touch her arm but she steps away jerkily like I burned her or something.

"Of course, it's okay, why wouldn't it be." she says, smoothing her hair with noticeably unsteady hands. "Have you finished the lecture? Yeah, good. Well message received. I'm out of here, just like you wanted."

She pulls an envelope out of her pocket and drops it onto the table. "You can give that to him yourself. I wish I'd bloody forked out for the stamp after all."

Watching her leave the room, all I can think is what the fuck just happened? In all the ways I'd dread this meeting, I hadn't dreamed it would end up with me feeling worried for Georgie Lane.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author Note:** ****

 _As ever, and I do mean this very sincerely, many thanks for the reviews._

 _I'm managing to write more as I'm still on Christmas holidays with more time than usual, but I'm back to work next week. Since work pays the bills3 and I like to eat, c'est la vie and unfortunately I will be back to updating more slowly._

 **Chapter Eleven – Road To Hell, Good Intentions And All That**

* * *

 _The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off._

 ** _―_** ** _Joe Klaas_**

* * *

Charles never got that coffee and I got back to work late but just in time for a lecture from snotty-Valerie. To be fair, I was late. So, I take it on the chin for that reason and because arguing with a Lieutenant is never and good idea. Afterwards, me and the clipboard get cracking into the afternoon appointments.

Not taking in a break in the afternoon seems to have cleared my black mark in Valerie's opinion, and we parted company at the end of the shift semi-pleasantly and, thank fuck, that's me for the weekend. I've never been more grateful. It feels like its been a long week.

It's Emily latest nag, wanting me to take some time off. Apparently, I've been looking tired. I think that's polite person speak for I'm looking like shit. I will admit that the view in the bathroom mirror in the mornings hasn't been kind, but concealer is a fab product for hiding more than just eyebags and spots. The 'Molly's Coping' mask I've been wearing has been relying on it quite a bit recently.

I'm being unfair, I know, but it feels like everybody needs something from me. For Charles I am companion and 24-7 cheer squad. For our families and friends, I'm the provider of news and arranger of visits. For Sam, I'm doing the job of parenting for both of us, though I'll be fair to Rebecca she's not kicked off once when I've asked to have Sam at short notice or had to re-arrange his normal visitation days. Chuck my day job into all that lot and there's not much left. I'm running on empty, but I'm still going, so I'm calling that a win.

I think today is the first time I'm willing to admit to myself I'm fucking exhausted by it all. I feel like a circus performer balancing spinning plates and Georgie just chucked another one into the mix with her visit today.

In the first phone call I ever had with Emily, she offered to be a shoulder to cry on or a cocktail drinking partner–whichever I needed. I've got to admit that the latter is very self-indulgently appealing, but I've got more important shit to shoulder at the moment. So, I pin on a smile and walk into his hospital room door.

He's up on his crutches moving when I walk in and it a great thing to see, his physical progress. It's the expression in his eyes that stops me dead in my tracks.

It's an instinctive response in me these days; I'm on guard and worried about what's going on in his nut that has him so worked up. I knowing it's wrong, assessing my husband like he's some sort of emotional unexploded bomb, but I stand quiet and watchful, the hello kiss and hug I wanted from him forgotten.

The tension in him is clear. His body language is practically screaming it. He goes to make a turn towards the bed and wobbles unsteadily.I step forward to help automatically.

"I'm fine.," he snaps, and I step back, wary again as he positions himself awkwardly on the side of the bed and shoves the crutches away so that they clatter angrily against the wall, coming to rest against the chair by the side of his bed.

He swings his legs up on the bed with a wince, the scars on the wounded leg are red against his pale skin as the material of his PJ trousers rides up with the movement. He struggles to elevate his leg onto a pillow but manages.

Normally I'd help, but the hostility radiating out of him has me unsure of what to do and hovering. Once settled, he takes to studying his hands folded in his lap like they're super interesting and the room settles into a hostile sort of silence.

I scan my eyes around, desperate for clues because he's giving me nothing but a forehead creased into frown lines and dark trouble eyes. The room looks the same as it was when I left this morning. Same furniture and equipment, my laptop that I left with him this morning, is open on the side table, charger cable trailing off the bed towards the wall plug.

I'm not sure what I'm looking for. It's not as though I'm going to find a helpful note or Georgie Lane was here sign. Her name popping into my head has me thinking. Did he see her afterwards? I'm sure it couldn't have been before. I checked, he was at hydro-therapy when I found her waiting in his room. Yep, no insecurities on display there. Perfectly reasonable to check where you husband was when not found in his hospital bed.

 _Fuck-sake, grow some balls, Molly._

Getting annoyed with myself, I take a step closer to the bed, ready to ask him what's going on, because somebody has to say something. He beats me to it.

"When were you going to talk to me about it?"

"Talk to you about what? I– is this about Georgie?"

"Of course, it's not about Lane!"

He turns the laptop around on the table top so the lit screen is facing me. The email app is open. My laptop, my email… The one at the top is from my CO, titled 'BCU Course Confirmation'. My heart sinks. _Shit._

"It's in Birmingham, Molly. Bloody Birmingham. Two hours away from the place we call home. I know my regiment is based at Bulford, but you know there's a good chance we might being moving to Catterick or Colchester. That even further away. I thought we were stopping this, being away from each other? I thought that's what we wanted. Then you go and do this!"

Suddenly I'm seeing red. Not the pale, insipid red they paint London buses and post boxes with, oh no, I'm talking about the press this big fucking button and nuclear Armageddon is coming to get you kind of red.

"When was I going to talk to _you_?"

He's good. I'll give him that. Even has a lip tremble on the word we. He looks furious and vulnerable at the same time, but I'm struggling to get myself passed furious because this has been bubbling away in me for a long fucking time.

"I tried to talk to you about this before you left for Belize. That night, the dinner that you never appear for. That's when I tried to talk to you about it, but you fucked off to Belize with her instead then got yourself speared on a boar trap. Can't say that the opportunity came up since."

That's a lie, right there, but the sarcasm is dripping out of me like poison right along with my temper.

"That's not the point, we talked about this. You taking a UK based role."

"This is a UK based role."

"Two fucking hours away from our home. We talked about this."

"No, you talked at me about a UK based role for me. Whenever I tried to talk to you about a UK based role for you, you left, or forgot to come home, conveniently. Don't get me started on the foreign tours. I'm not sure you've been able to see beyond what you need in a very long time."

"Was that what you were planning then? Accepting this, relocating and then letting me find out after. Is this some sort of revenge. Are you leaving me?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Look at it from my point of view–"

"Your point of view. I do nothing but look at things from your point of view. What you're feeling, what you're saying, or not saying, what you need from this moment to that. It's all I've been doing since Elvis died and you started pushing me away. I don't have anything more to give you. You've taken all I've got, then you ask me that?"

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Didn't you? Bleedin' sounded like you did."

I'm done, so done. I root around in my bag and pull out the crumbled brown envelope that's been in there for more than two weeks and chuck it onto the end of the bed.

"My A level results. The conditional offer I had for the Nursing Degree at BCU is now unconditional because I passed. Thanks for asking."

I flick Georgie and the boys' card onto the end of the bed as well.

"Hand delivered by Georgie Lane herself today, and yeah, I did deal with that particular emotional grenade for you. While you were at hydro therapy, as it happens."

"Molly–."

"Don't, just don't'. I'm not in the headspace to hear you. I know that unreasonable for plenty of reasons not just because you're wounded, and all, but I have had enough for one night."

"We need to talk about this."

"No, you need us to talk about this. I'm tired and need some time to step out of this for a night. I'm not leaving you. I will talk about this tomorrow, I just can't… Not tonight."

"Molly, wait. I had some news to tell you." he says, apologetic but no _quite_ sorry. That boyish awkwardness is there on his face. The one he shows when he knows he's done wrong but can't quite pull the stick out of his arse to actually find the words to explain why.

"Do you, good for you. So, did I back then but just like you I've got other things to do with my time right now."

Now I'm just being childish and resentful, and I don't like myself very much for it, but I'm struggling to get myself to give him anything but hurt and defensiveness, and that's why I need to leave for now.

"I'm sorry, that was unfair. I need to go."

And I left and went straight to Emily office to hide.

 **ooOOoo**

Emily appears at her office door on my first knock, looks me up and down then grabs me by my elbow and drags me into her office.

"Right spill, what the hell is going on?"

"It's possible I found Georgie in Charles' room. Then we had words. Charles wasn't there, luckily."

"Is she still in one piece?"

"Surprisingly, yes."

"This maybe a stupid question, but why was she here?"

"Because they don't sell stamps in Bulford apparently. She had a card from the lads and a flimsy excuse to present herself in person. That was this morning's misadventure."

"Right…"

"It gets better. I went to see him after work to find he's got he's hump with me. I brought my laptop in for him, didn't I. He read an email from my CO chasin' about the placement on the course at BCU. So now I'm a bitch for not telling him in person even before I threw Georgie's visit in his face and stormed out."

Emily' face says it all.

"I know I promised I'd tell him days ago. I'm an idiot and it's all bloody blown up in my face as you said it would but please don't tell me off again. I've had enough for one day. I just want to go home and hide or something."

"I'm not going to tell you off. I'm actually impressed. If Tom's paramour had arrived at my work or home back then, they'd have been taking me away in handcuffs."

"Look, I know you said you were visiting your in-laws, but–"

"Is Tom around? Sure. He wasn't coming with us due to a convenient meeting. I'll ask him to drop in on Charles, shall I?"

"Please. I need a bit of time, but I don't want him stewing on his own."

"Like I said, you're nicer than me. I'd let him stew."

 **ooOOoo**

The magnolia coloured wall of the rental flat is slowing starting to drive me mad by the time I've been home, showered and forced a sandwich down my gob. Wandering round the flat wearing holes in the carpets isn't helping me settle any.

If I had a tail, I'd have chewed it off by now in frustration. I know I said an evening away from him, and his problems was what I needed but that was all bullshit. Now that I've calmed down, I can see that, because they're our problems not his.

Contrariness, meet Molly. You and I have a lot in common at the moment, unfortunately.

Despite all of my dramatics tonight, and my Nan's favourite saying about letting sleeping dogs lie, I'm thinking of doing something that will throw me right into the thick of everything I said I didn't want to deal with tonight because there's no way I can't. At least not if I want to be able to live with my conscience.

One part of me is questioning my sanity even as I'm calling his number on my mobile, but I need to do something tonight or I'm going to go fucking crazy.

"Chicken, how are doing?"

"Bones? Hey. Look you know that offer of coffee and you shutting your gob and listening? Is that still something you're willing to do?"

He half shouts his reply because wherever he is, it's bloody loud in the background. "I'll always make time for you, chicken."

"Fuck off with the poultry endearments, will you. Where the hell are you? It sounds like you're standing by the M25 or something."

"No, worst, Elephant & Castle in North Camp with this bunch of tossers. Say hello to Dawesey Tossers!"

A chorus of Dawesey in male voices rings out with a very familiar Scottish one perhaps the loudest–Spanner.

"You're a bit previous being out on a school-night right before a tour, aren't you?"

"Officer's privilege, 48-hour pass."

Then I think: _fuck it._

"Tell you what, stuff the coffee. I'll be there in thirty minutes. Have the tequila ready."

"And waste good drinking time waiting for you to put your face on? Hell, no. You're gorgeous enough. We'll come to you. Where are you?"

"Farnham."

"The Wheatsheaf on West Street in fifteen minutes. Don't be late, Dawesey. Get your glorious arse down there and we'll meet you."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve – Downtime & Do-overs**

* * *

 _Our castle would crumble before us but that doesn't mean it can't be rebuilt, rebuilt for real, this time without the errors and a little more caution._ _ **― Chirag Tulsiani**_

* * *

 _Sweet Jesus, I'm getting too old for this shit._ Is the first thought than runs through my pounding head as I lift my lead filled eyelids. The daylight coming in through the open curtains is assaulting my eyes and I slam them shut again with a self-pitying groan. Self-pitying because the state I'm in is very, very self-inflicted.

I bravely open one lid again to identify that yes, I am in bed in the rental flat in last night's clothes. A memory from last night comes back clear enough. Me taking my vodka sozzled self off to bed, sitting on the side of the bed to take off my boots then deciding to have a lie down until the room stopped spinning, then not much else. Which would explain why I am currently tangled up in the duvet still wearing those boots.

I woman up and force myself to get half vertical – a feat in itself– and by which, I mean sitting upright with my arm over my eyes against the light. Huffing like an Olympic weight lifter straining for their gold medal lift, I force myself out of bed and take myself and the regimental brass band clanking around in my head off for a shower.

One shower later, and after glugging straight from the cold tap and my hand, because I'm classy like that, I'm two paracetamols into my morning and at least able to walk and with both eyes open without wincing. I'm calling that a win as I get dressed and then brace myself for the state the flat is going to be in after last night's SF sponsored activities.

The hall is quiet as I walk out of the bedroom door, but judging by the snoring coming from the spare room, at least one somebody stayed after. Looking around the open door, I see spanner is crashed out on the bed. The snoring is coming from the floor where Peanut is stretch out on the rug, wrapped in the duvet from the bed and out like a light.

Heading passed the door of the living, I identify Jackson's feet hanging off the end of one sofas. The other sofa is empty, but judging by the placement of the cushions, somebody crashed out on there last night.

There's only one more person and one more place he could be, so I follow my nose and the smell of coffee into the kitchen. Bones is leaning on the counter by the sink drinking out of mug and looking as fresh as a daisy but for his rumpled looking hair and stubble. In a chest clinging grey Henley and dark jeans he looks too bright eyes and bushy tailed for someone who matched me vodka for vodka last night.

"Morning, Dawesey." His eyes look me up and down. "You seem a bit–"

"Rough?" I reply helpfully.

"I was going to say _effected_ but rough works."

"No one but myself to blame. I was as up for it as the rest of you last night."

"You were indeed a woman on mission." Bones laughs.

"I think it was the darts with shots that about finished me off."

Spanner's idea of a dare. A shot for each bullseye missed. I was always a bit shit at darts. Hilarious at the time, but I'm paying for it now.

"I'm getting to bleedin' old for mixing my drinks."

"I'm disappointed. The Dawesey I met in Kabul had no problem with holding her own with a bunch of SF Gods. You drank me under the table without breaking a sweat."

I grin. "That's because for everyone two you were drinking, the pot plant behind me got one when you weren't looking."

"You sneaky little, madam, I might have known."

"I can't share all my secrets all at once." Reminding of the pounding behind my eyeballs, I rub my forehead. "I need to feed this beast before it gets out of control. You up for a bacon butty and a chat? I did have something serious to talk to you about when I called yesterday."

"Lead on, Dawesey, we can bring back supplies, then I'll get those lazy tossers up and out of your house."

 **ooOOoo**

A coffee shop off the High Street was Bones' choice. I fed my hangover induced carbohydrate requirements with a breakfast roll and mug off tea while laying out my concerns about Georgie.

"Are you saying I need to remove her from active duty?"

"I'm saying you need to keep an eye on her. She's been through too much and I think cracks are starting to show."

He considers what I'm saying for a moment. "I've seen her in the field. I'd agreed she seems to be a bit reactive under pressure. Stepping up to trouble instead of away."

"It's more than that. Georgie's always had balls, but this is different. She and Elvis had a complicated history but they mattered a lot to each other. I couldn't see what she's seen and be okay if it had been Charles."

"They never should have been on a mission together. You know that, right."

Of course I know that, and I want to say he's stating the bleedin' obvious but that's being a bit childish, so I keep quiet.

"One of the many things that's been going to hell in a hand basket with that platoon."

I know he's taking a pop at Charles, but I'm not gonna rise, because we're getting off topic and I need this dealt with so I can put it behind me–and well, us.

"She's jumpy, guarded. Something's not right, but she's like Charles, best when she busy and working. I'm just asking you to be aware and step in for her own good if it comes to it."

He looks doubtful

"She's a top-notch Medic, Bones. Give her a chance."

"The Army is full of Medics. I could take you."

"Aside from the injured husband and that I'm about to transfer to QARANC via BSU, I'm most definitely not on offer."

"Going up in the world, Dawesey. Congratulations."

"Thanks."

"What's brought this on? Life with the Rupert going too slow for you? Needing a change?"

"Don't change the subject. I'm worried about this. I need you to take it seriously."

"I would be doing myself a favour by leaving her behind when we go to Bangladesh by the sound of things." he says, regarding me over the rim of his second cup of black coffee.

"Sounds to me like you're after taking the easy route, aint you?" I reply with a sigh. "I thought better of you."

"I've been put on nanny duty with this platoon as a punishment. My intention is to shape them up, then get back to SF as quickly as fucking possible. Taking a lame-duck Medic with me does not fit into that plan." he says calmly.

"I hear the words, but I'm not believing them. You're a nob, but you're also a bloody good CO. You won't leave her behind for that. Not without trying to get her back into shape first. You wouldn't walk away from one of your men like that."

"I might make you right there. I always enjoyed a challenge."

I cross my arms across my chest and sit back rolling my eyes. "That wasn't what I meant when I said keep an eye on her, and you know it."

"Kill-joy." he says with a wide grin.

The waitress comes over with a cupboard box filled with carryout coffee and enough breakfast rolls to feed a platoon. Bones hands her his bank card with a flash of teeth and lazy charm that's all him, and she walks off giggling like a teenager even though she must be sixty if she's a day.

"Fine. She's going and I'll keep an eye out. Can't hurt anything. I have a new minted Medic joining us once we get to Bangladesh anyway. All part of the improvement plans."

"Just what do you have planned for my boys, Bones?"

"You heard of the school of short, sharp shocks? Let's just say that's where they're heading starting this week on the assault course at Pirbright."

"Jesus. I feel sorry for them already."

He laughs. "I might ruffle some feathers but not much else. Don't you have enough on your hands at the moment, without worrying about some squaddies?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't make me worry any less at them being left to your less than tender mercies."

"I won't leave permanent marks. Promise. You ready?"

"Yes, thanks."

"You look better."

"I suffer from what my Nan likes to call bounce back hangovers. I'll be right as Larry for now, and get whammed again this afternoon. Carbs and fluids are the way to go."

"Let's head then and wake up the tossers then. Once they're fed, we'll get out of your hair so you can get back to babying your Rupert."

Walking back, I'm considering what I'm going to say to Charles once I get back to the hospital. My diva strop wasn't my finest moment, but the reasons behind it need talking about. It isn't something I can avoid. I've been doing that for far too long as it is. A point that Emily has made to me more than once recently.

"You're a million miles away." Bones says as we turn onto Castle Street.

"Just wool gathering."

His grey-blue eyes appraise me for several seconds and I wonder what he sees.

"I will keep an eye on Lane for you. Though I'm curious why the concern?"

"I'm a Medic, it's my job."

"It's more _personal_ than that, I think."

"She was my mate once."

"Is this to do with your husband?"

"I thought you said he wasn't the type?"

"I could be wrong."

"Captain McClyde wrong? Never."

"Who's changing the subject now?"

I sigh, knowing he's not going to let this go. It's not in his nature. That's why he's good at being an SF knob. Good instincts for bullshit and annoyingly tenacious. Just like Elvis.

"Elvis was his best friend. They both shared his loss."

He stops me with hand on my arm and his tone is gentle, for Bones at least. "Is that all?".

"Yeah…that's all." I say the word 'luckily' silently to myself, but I have the suspicion he can read me just fine without saying the words out loud.

"I just want you to promise me one thing. If it comes to it, I don't want her to know it was me that said anything."

"Why?"

"What she's going through is bad enough. Adding me in the mix will just complicate something that's already gonna be difficult. And I don't want involved."

"I thought you were mates?"

"After she and Elvis split, she cut herself off from people that were connected to him. I could have tried to get back in contact, but I chose Elvis. The connection between Charles and Georgie. It's not a good thing they. Especially not for him with what he's facin'. I can't have him worry about that and all the rest as well."

"Are you saying she's a threat to your marriage?"

"No, it's not that. I can see what you're thinking though. It's not because I'm jealous or thinkin' they're gonna be off shagging."

"You sure?"

"Very. They were as close as brothers. He watched his best friend be blown up and fall five storeys to his death. All in front of Elvis' future wife. He supported her and Elvis' family afterwards. Is there any wonder he suffering because of it? He blames himself and it's eating him up with the guilt and anxiety. She's a reminder of that."

"I liked Elvis. It was a fucking waste the way he went."

As it often does, the memory of his loss stings.

"He went out doing the job that he loved. Not many people get to do that, but you're right it was a fucking waste."

"I'll keep an eye on Lane for you." This time I believe he's serious.

"Thanks, Bones. I appreciate it."

 **ooOOoo**

Bones was good to his word. They were up, fed and helping clear up then out of my hair within an hour. Leaving me to wash the stripped bedding, re-make the beds and air out the place. Once that was all done, I didn't have any more excuses to delay heading to the hospital by ten o'clock.

I'm contemplating a final cup of tea before ringing a taxi because I'm dubious that I'll be quite legal to drive after last night's shits and giggles, when the doorbell rings.

Surrounded by Waitrose bags deposited by a retreating waving and smiling Colonel Beck and standing straight and steady on one crutch is Charles.

"You're here." I say stupidly.

"I wanted to celebrate with my wife." he replies, pulling a bottle of something fizzy from behind his back. "I wanted to celebrate with my wife. I heard she'd been accepted into uni."

His smile is tentative, like he's unsure of his welcome. I don't care because he here, and smiling and all the rest of just doesn't fucking matter. Then I'm in his arms and it's all good.

 **ooOOoo**

We never made it to the bedroom. Laying tangled together on the sofa, we're covered with a throw for warmth as much as modesty. Despite the restrictions of his leg, it was something we'd both been needing. Physical and emotional re-connection.

In the aftermath, I found myself lost in my own head for a while, but it wasn't in a scary sense. Al that we had together is still there and finding that out again is giving me more confidence in us and our ability to get through this together than I had when I stormed out of his hospital room yesterday.

I found a bravery I'd be lacking recently too, and told him as much. Then we just talked and talked. Wrapped up in the comfort of being close, skin to skin, it just came more easily–explaining how I'd been feeling. I'm not sure he's exactly happy that I shared some stuff with Bones about Georgie, but I think he can see it's for the best. He admitted as much which is a step forward.

"I don't want you to managed me, Molly. That what we were doing before. Me by shutting you and out and you by tip-toeing around me."

I make a very unladylike noise. "Yeah, look how well that ended. Runnin' away from each other to opposite ends of the word and boar-traps."

"To be fair I think it was me more than you that did the running."

"Maybe, but I was definitely the one on the run yesterday."

He presses his lips to my forehead, arms tightening across my back.

"Maybe, but you were at the end of your rope, weren't you?"

I nod. "A bit."

"We need to be more honest with each other. If you're tired, upset, angry. Be that. If you have news, tell me. I've got to deal with it. I want us back to as close to normal as we can. We never kept secrets before."

"I was just trying to protect you."

"I know. When the PTSD first took hold, I was trying to protect you, too, but it didn't do anything good, did it?"

"No. I know. I'm still sorry for storming off though."

"Me too, for what it's worth."

He stretches underneath me, putting an arm behind his head and settling himself more comfortably. He looks more relaxed and like _him_ than I've seen him for a long, long time.

"I think we might need to move soon. I get the need for a ground floor flat for my mobility in the short term, but I'm not sure I like it for privacy. Don't want the postie seeing us naked while trying to get his job done."

"I'd be more concerned about your parents. They're due soon."

"Shit, why didn't you say something?" he says horrified, getting ready to move urgently. My giggling gives him a clue that I'm not serious. "Are you taking the piss you little horror?"

"Might be? We need to move anyway. I assume you have food in those Waitrose bags?"

"It is possible that I was planning on cooking you a favour lunch."

"Steak and pepper corn sauce?" He smiles all cheek and devilment.

"Maybe. With some bubbly to go with, and fizzy elderberry juice for me to fake the fizz. I don't think alcohol and my pain killers would go well together."

"I think I might join you with the fizzy juice. I think my liver needs a rest after last night shenanigans."

"Like that was it?"

"Yeah, very much like that."

"That's my girl."

"Not that it isn't amazing to have you home, but how'd that occur?"

"My placement at Headley has been moved up. Three nights residential assessment from Monday, then outplacement on the physical rehab and outpatient on the therapy for PTSD."

"So, you decided against the residential option for therapy the Colonel Beck was suggesting?" I ask carefully, but I can hear the worry creeping into my voice. I was there when this was discussed and I understood it was the preferred option for his triggers and PTSD. "That worries me. I've got to be honest."

He rolls us so were facing each other side by side. "We need to work on us as much as I need to work on me. More time apart isn't what I want."

"Are you sure?"

"I haven't done this on a whim. It was sanctioned by the Army shrink."

I consider this for a moment. Then make peace with it. Honesty has got to include trust, otherwise what's the point?

"Okay."

He quirks an eyebrow at me. "Okay? That's it, you're good with it?"

"What? Did you think we were gonna have a big fight about it or something? If you feel that's what you need, of course I'm okay with it."

"Do you have any idea how much I love you."

"I think earlier on gave me a bit of a clue. You said it often enough, all out breath and urgent like."

"Piss-taker."

"You wouldn't have me any other way."

"True."

"I love you, too, by the way."

"Good to know."

"You know you said about the postman? You're probably right. Since he's due soon and I'm getting' hungry can we make a move to the shower and some clothes?"

"Do I think move to the shower with you is a good idea. Absolutely."

"I didn't necessarily mean together." I say, stretching out to grab the throw off the other sofa, because I know one blanket isn't going to cover both of us successfully and the postman is actually due pretty soon.

"I definitely did."

I wrap it sarong like around me and pass him his crutch. "I'm hungry and I don't want you getting distracted before my celebration lunch."

He sniggers. "I am an officer in Her Majesty Army. Are you suggesting I can't multi-task?"

"Come on you, prannet. Sooner done, the sooner I can admire your prowess in the kitchen, can't I?"

Let's just say it took a while before we got around to lunch…


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen – Blue Stains and Broken Bones**

* * *

 _Life's under no obligation to give us what we expect. –_ _ **Margaret Mitchell**_

* * *

I'm just leaving X-Ray having dropped off a patient and contemplating that skipping breakfast wasn't the best idea giving the way my stomach is grumbling, when the receptionist calls out to me.

"Molly?"

"That's me?"

"Call for you, Ms Beck." She smiles while holding a handset out to me.

"Thanks, Janie." Another nod and smile and she's back to answering another ringing phone with the handset held tucked against her shoulder while handing a file to a Porter standing to my right. She's obviously a bit of busy lady.

"Hey, Emily. What can I do for you before I tell you what you can do for me?"

"Where are you at right now?" she replied, voice steady and professional and yet there something about the way she rushes the word now that clues me in that there's something up.

"Just leaving X-Ray."

"Perfect, get down here straight away. You've got to see who's just been brought in."

"Am I going to like to like this surprise?" I ask, not really in the mood for jokes so much as a bacon roll and the largest mug of tea I can conceivably get my hands on.

"I have no idea, but it's epic in its ridiculousness."

"I'm not sure that your surprise trumps my current and increasingly urgent need for food."

"If you come now, I swear I'll stand you breakfast straight afterwards."

"Fair enough."

"Good." she says practically squeaking with excitement.

"Am I gonna have to call your husband and tell him you've been sniffing the meds again?"

"I have no idea what you mean."

" _Right…_ Because you're totally the model of cool, calm and collected right now."

"Molly."

"Yes?"

"Shut-up and get a shift on!"

"Sure, it's not like I'm going to get a better offer this morning."

"Molly."

"Y-e-s." I said, drawing out the word to be deliberately extra annoying.

"Are you taking the 'p' out of me, Corporal."

"Maybe a bit, former Major."

"That breakfast roll is at risk if you're not down here in three minutes."

"Yes, Mam." I say, but she's already hung up on me.

Emily is waiting for me at the swinging doors to the department with a shit eating grin on her face and blocking my way. I stop, cross my arms across my scrub clad chest.

"Okay, you're freaking me out now. What's going on?"

"It's at moments like this I wish we had to wear body cams like the police because your face is going to be _amazing."_ she said, giggling.

"Let's get this over with, but if I see your mobile coming out or any camera's or crowds of spectators, I'm out of here."

She takes my arm, tugging me through the doors and towards one of the exam areas. As we cross the corridor passed the booking in desk, I see Bones wearing mud splattered fatigues standing by Kingey who's in even more mud splatter uniform. They both have their backs to us and are talking to the receptionist.

I try to stop, indicating to Emily that I've recognised Bones and Kingey but her grip on my arm is relentless as she moves us forward.

"Time for that later. You've got to see this first." she said with a grin which mysteriously disappears as she her expression becomes professionally blank as she pulls the curtain back from the cubicle.

I'm pretty sure I just look confused, then amused, then constipated while I try not to laugh my guts out at the scene in front of me.

"Didn't know we were running auditions for the Smurfs." I manage to say with a relatively calm voice despite the urge to laugh long and loud.

Picture the scene. Brains is laying on an exam bed with his arm strapped to his chest. Sitting alongside him in hard back plastic chairs are various members of Two Section old and new. One looking kind of sheepishly guilty and two dyed blue. As in with blue stain splashed on their skin. An effect which is remarkably fetching with Mansfield red hair and Baz's pale blond buzz cut.

"So, who's up for the role of Papa Smurf?" I ask casually and watch as Emily's I'm a medical professional mask slips into a smirk briefly and just as quickly disappears again.

"Dawesey."

"Molly."

"Molls."

A chorus of various versions of my name spring from the assembled squaddies.

Brains, with a sweet if slightly pained smile, greets me with my post-marriage, Army moniker. "Jamesey."

"I'll leave you with the patients, James. I just need to go check up on some test result for Privates Wiggerty, Cheam and Fleming." Emily says, nodding in the direction of Brains, Mansfield and Baz.

"Tests? What for us?" Baz asked, pointing between himself and Mansfield with a blue stained hand. "What do we need tests for?"

"I need to check the COSHH database to make an assessment of any potential negative effects. As a minimum you're going to need a broad-spectrum antibiotic shot and very hot showers giving what you've had sprayed on you both."

Standing on the opposite side of the bed, Richards, who appears to have avoided any blue staining, squirms guiltily and says, "But they're going to be alright, yeah?"

"That's what I'm off to check, Private." Emily replies in her best clipped officer voice, and Richards look even more guilty. "I'll leave them with you, James."

Emily writes on the chart she's holding, then leaves.

"Anyone want to tell me what's being happening? Brains, maybe you, since you seemed to be the worst off?"

"That would be down to our new CO being a nutter. We're all cluster gobbles, whatever the fuck that means, and he's had us on an assault course all day because one of us isn't going to Bangladesh 'because he thinks we're all a bit shit."

"Not that I'm doubting you, Brains, but assault courses and insults are pretty normal thing for the British Army."

"Had half the training staff at Pirbright screaming at us all day." Baz added. "Running us up and down in full kit."

"Still not seeing anything strange in that."

"With live firing and high-pressure waters hoses." Mansfield said. "The water was freaking freezing."

"Ahh." Now I'm starting to get the picture. Bones at his mad bastard best.

"You try holding onto the side of climbing wall with a water hose aimed at you." Brains said. "I slipped."

"And took one of the Training Sergeants out on the way down. He's worse off than Brains. Busted shoulder, Lane said." Richards said, sniggering, to which I felt obliged to give her the stink-eye over. Given that Brains was injured and all and because, unfairly, I didn't enjoy the reminder that Georgie was still around.

"What? It was bloody funny at the time. You don't need to get judgey about it."

"I'm not sure two people being injured is exactly _funny,_ Private."

"Figures, another joyless Medic. Seems the British Army has added humourless to job description of Medic these days." Richards said as a sort of attitude filled aside to Mansfield who exchanged a quick look at me and cringed on Richard's behalf.

"Exactly what do you mean by that, Private?"

"Maisie, leave it, yeah?" Brains said, ever trying to be the diplomatic one.

"Nah, I don't need to take attitude from some jumped up Doris because she's in scrubs."

"Watch your mouth, Richards, before it gets you into more trouble. That Doris is Captains James wife, and as you've obviously missed the stripes, she also happens to be a Corporal." Kingey said, entering through the curtain with perfect timing.

Richards shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her expression mutinous.

"Richards!"

"Sorry, Corporal James."

Shaking my head, I turn towards Kingey. "That explains this one with the broken wing, I'm not sure were chemical toilet fluid comes into things with these two?" I asked, pointing at Baz and Mansfield.

"That would involve Richards daring these two numb-nuts to take part in a dare involving how many squaddies can fit into a porta-loo while the people with actual brains between their ears were busy dealing with Brains and Sergeant Geddings' injuries.

"I tripped." Mansfield said. "Inside, the whole things tipped over with Baz and me inside. Stuff spilt–"

I held up my hand to stop any detailed description. The faint whiff of body fluids under the stronger smell of chemical toilet was enough of a graphic clue to what happened next.

"Did you say Geddings? As in Matthew Geddings?"

"Yes, he's one of the instructors. Why?"

"I know him, from training. He was my Corporal during basic."

"Small world."

"Bloody Army for you, ain't it."

"Are we really gonna need tests and stuff, Molls?" Mansfield asked, looking worried.

"You didn't swallow any of it did you?"

"No."

"Hell, no."

"Then, nah, you'll be fine on that one. You are gonna need a good long shower and maybe those antibiotics." I said soothingly before turning to Kingey. "Is Captain McClyde still here?"

"He was doing some paperwork and making some calls." Kingey replied.

"Okay. I'll be back in a minute. Just stay put, right?"

Bones was propping up the Nurses' Station desk and hanging up a call on his mobile when I found him.

"Dawesey, aren't you a sight for sore eyes." he said with a trade mark grin.

"Can't say the same for you. I mean, what the hell, Bones? You said you wouldn't leave any marks and I find this? Are you trying to trim my Facebook friends list?"

"What the fuck are you on about?"

"Geddings? Another one of your casualties. Been working away, happily and uninjured at Pirbright for years then you and your mad-bastard tendencies rock-up and bam, he's being stretcher into here."

"I get that it's unfortunate that he was injured but I'm not seeing why you're so invested."

"He was my Corporal during basic."

Bones laughs uproariously. "Really? Small world."

"Yeah, there's a lot of that going about today apparently." I said drily but his grin just gets wider.

"You see, Dawesey, that's why I enjoy you so much."

My hand makes a bla-bla gesture in Bones' direction. "Yeah, yeah. It's all about the banter, bla, bla."

"Anyway, you're not allowed to stay pissed at me because I bashed up a couple of your colleagues. It's the Regimental dinner dance soon, I'm expecting to be on your dance card at least once." he said.

"I thought you were off to Bangladesh?"

"We are, in forty-eight hours. Still enough time to slap on a mess uniform and hobnob with some Ruperts. Are you going to wear something sparkly for me?"

"If I had a half a clue what you were on about–no– and even if not–still no."

"You wound me, James, straight to the heart, but while it's been amusing as always, I've got to get going and deal with the rest of the morons that make-up your former platoon. Kingey! Richards!"

Both appear as if by magic.

"Kingey, you stay here until you know what's happen with Wiggerty and the other two muppets. Richards, you're going to drive me back to barracks then come back for Kingey. If you can manage that without death or injury, I'd be grateful."

"Dawesey. Give my regards to your husband, it's been a pleasure as always."

Kingey watched him stride off with Richard trotting behind with a stoic expression as Emily approached.

"From the sublime to the ridiculous, am I right?"

"Something like that." I said as Kingey ducked back behind the curtain. "What's the damage then?"

"Wiggerty's x-rays are clear. He's going to be bruised and will need that sprained wrist strapped up for a while but is otherwise good to go with some meds. Your blue stained comrades need a shot, shower and change of clothes, then can go. Though I might suggest a shower first."

"And Geddings?"

"Who, the instructor. You know him?"

"Something like that."

"Proximal humeral fracture." I wince on his behalf. "They're setting the arm at the moment then he'll being going up to the Ortho Ward to sleep it off."

Emily's bleeper goes off and she pulls it out to read it. "As fun as this had been, I've got to run. Can you arrange the shots and get them discharged?"

"Yes, no problem."

"See you later." she said walking off quickly.

"You still owe me that bacon roll you know."

"I'll pay you back at lunch."

I head back into the cubicle and two blue splattered faces turn towards me and, God help me, I can't stop the giggles.

"Alright then. Good news all round mostly, but first I think I might gonna have to sort you two out with clean clothes and a shower because, frankly, you bleedin' honk."

 **ooOOoo**

I'm in a lovely warm state of floaty sleepiness right before I'm about to drop off when Charles gets back from Headley and joins me via the shower judging by the amazing smell of his body wash and the slight dampness of his skin as he stretches out beside me and his arm comes around my waist.

I roll over and snuggle into the warmth of his shoulder.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. Thought you might still be up."

"You didn't, I was resting my eyes."

He chuckles. "Is that what they're calling it these days. Long day? It's early for you to be in bed."

"Just busy. I was going to watch Netflix then nodded off. How'd you get on?"

"Bit sore after physio, but I'm fine."

"Somebody mentioned something about a Regimental dinner at work today?"

"Yep, Beck said something a while back but I forgot. It's tomorrow. Won't be a problem will it? You're off and it will just mean driving and staying the night in Bath."

I sit up, leaning on his chest and look down into his smiling brown eyes.

"That depends. Is it going be an issue that Captain McClyde is going to be in attendance?"

Charles tenses underneath me, his expression a grimace.

"I haven't seen that guy for years and now I don't seem to be able to escape the sod."

"I know there's a story there that you haven't shared."

Charles smoothed my hair back from my face and sighed.

"Too perceptive as always, wife of mine. I am happy enough to share, but first I want to know how you know McClyde is going to be at this blasted dinner."

"He was at the hospital today with a couple of members of Two Section. Nothing serious, they just needed checked out."

He quirks an eyebrow at me. "Are you sure you don't have a story to tell first?"

"Nah. You're going to spill first and then I'm going to explain how Two Section is now recruiting people colour with blue dye into their ranks."

Charles' chest vibrates with laughter under my spread hands, and he reaches up to peck a kiss onto my forehead.

"Now I'm going to have to insist that you spill the proverbial beans first. You can't make a statement like that then leave a man hanging."

I smile. "Domestic niceties first. Are you taking a sleeping tablet?"

"No. I discussed it with the shrink today. I want off of the bloody things now. I don't mind sleeping next door. You seem tired. The last thing you need is me thrashing around waking you up."

It his shield, I know. Talking down the nightmares that still plague him like they're some sort of minor inconvenience. They are lessoning but are definitely not minor.

"We talked about that. I don't want separate beds. Not ever again." I said, trying to hide the flash of anxiety that comes with thinking about how things were between us before he left for Belize. He picks up on it of course, and his arms tightening around me in response.

"I don't want that either, besides, I have to story to tell you, don't I?"

I lay down, head against his chest and listen to his heart thumping away under my ear. "Is this going to start with once upon a time?"

"Well it is to do with a handsome officer."

"Well, that's Bones introduced. When to you come into it?"

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding!" His long fingers begin tickling down my sides until I try to wiggle out of reach. "Of course, you weren't referring to Bones. The man is hideous, obviously."

"That's what I thought you meant." he replied smugly.

"Get on with telling the story."

"Once upon a time, at Sandhurst, there was a devastatingly handsome Officer Cadet called Charles…"


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen – Clowns To The Left Of Me, Jokers To The Right**

* * *

 _Some people believe holding on and hanging in there are signs of great strength. However, there are times when it takes much more strength to know when to let go and then do it._ _ **― Ann Landers**_

* * *

Here's couple of things I've learned in the space of an afternoon and a drive to Bath. Mentionitis about a certain former Corporal who I had a crushed on during Basic Training can make a certain husband a _tiny_ bit moody. Not that I still have a crush, but my apparently my 'very animated' retelling of our reunion –one based on my need to apologise for my former Sections' jackass behaviour because Matt Geddings got wounded due to Bones being a bit of a bully to my boys–apparently put Charles' nose 'a tad out of joint'. And yes, those are direct quotes. However, said husband perked up considerably after pulling faces about Matt's single status, when I outlined my master plan regarding matching-making Matt with an equally single Jackie.

That said, mentionitis about Bones and his banter/flirting/piss-taking, to make sure it didn't come as a shit stirring surprise given that Bones was going to be at the dinner dance nonsense tonight, backfired on me spectacularly. Even if I did have the best of intentions in terms of not giving Bones ammunition against Charles by keeping quiet about it. Charles' man-child sized mardy mood that followed the disclosure didn't put me in the best mood. While his jealousy, if I'm honest with myself, is a bit of confidence boast, his sulking isn't such fun.

A bit of an argument followed, where Charles decided to shove a self-righteous pole firmly up his arse–a point which I made sure to mention (naughty me)– before lecturing me about how the rivalry between Bones and him run deep. He was just using me to get back at him after the Sandhurst/Sword of Honour bollocks and bla, bla, insert more self-righteous stuck up words which I choose to try to tune out.

This haranguing started as we drove passed Amesbury and ended several motorway junctions later at Warminster when I threatened, semi-seriously, to pull over and leave him to find his own way to Bath.

Explaining that I wouldn't touch Bone even if equipped with rubber gloves and an Ebola proof Hazmat suite had him sniggering, and all was forgiven again, except I made him go to Starbucks (a big no-no for Mr I-prefer-artisan-coffee) and buy me the biggest Vanilla latte they offered by way of making amends.

Sitting talking over my very delicious latte brought confession out of Charles. He's heard from Beck that some of the SF boys are going to be at this shindig and he's finding the idea of a reunion a bit overwhelming. Memories of the jungle and meeting people that were there when Elvis died are all twisted up in his head and he struggling with it.

Getting back home to our house was weird and a bit effecting for Charles since he'd not been back since he left for Belize after that final nasty fight when I'd handed over my wedding ring–not my finest moment. Said I would lock everything up and take us back to the flat in Farnham without a second thought, if he needed me to. He hugged me, holding me very tightly, and said he appreciated the safety net I was offering but he needed to do this.

My plan B was making new, better memories but we'd made a commitment to attending the Regimental do, so that cut short what was an otherwise affection filled, lazy afternoon which I'm hoping is going to end behind our closed bedroom later tonight. Charles in his Mess Uniform is one of my favourite things second only to Charles out of his Mess Uniform.

 **ooOOoo**

Despite my best efforts to pursued him to stay home, we arrive several hours later to the stuffy, wood panelled grandeur of the Officer's Mess at Bulford Barracks. With a glass of orange in Charles' hand and a glass of prosecco in mine, we proceed into the melee of small-talk, red coated officers and their significant others, and social one-up-manship that tends to be the be-all and end-all of these sorts of gatherings.

I'm wearing a little black dress which is all modest from the front and backless to the waist from behind. Judging by the way Charles' has been trailing his fingers up and down my spine under the wrap I'm wearing, I think he's wishing we had stayed home as well. This just makes me wish this whole evening would finish soon. I have better places to be.

Charles is relaxed chatting to another Captain who's name I forget when Bones arrives with a blond on his arm who I don't recognise. As his eyes track Bones' progress across the room, Charles is noticeably more tense and this is a theme that continued even once Bones is out of sight. Afterwards, It's not lost on me that Charles keeps me by his side either with his arm around my waist or my hand on his arm ever since.

An obnoxiously loud gong calls everyone from mingling with drinks into dinner, and as luck would have it, we've been placed at the far end of the table from Bones and his girlfriend for the evening and close to Emily and Colonel Beck. Less lucky is the fact that I'm sat right beside the regimental Chaplain, Captain Osborne, which wouldn't be a problem in itself as he actually a nice guy. His wife, sat by his side, however, is a card-carrying breyingly loud snob of a woman who my Gran would call a Hooray Henrietta if she was being nice, and a screaming bitch if she was being honest. In short, I can't stand the woman. I'm pretty sure Verity Osborne feels exactly the same about me.

In the four years we've been together, I've learned how to play the game when it comes to dealing with people in these situations. It used to scare me, how out of my depth I felt and worry me that I'd show myself up, or worst, Charles at one of these Regimental events. Stay focused, stay alert, stay social alive and all that. The biggest lesson I learned was to listen more than speak, and pick your battles. Verity was a well-known gossip. I'd learned early not to feed the beast.

We're sitting at the long banquet table waiting for everyone else to finish sitting, when Emily walks passed to get to her seat, but stops briefly by my ear to hum a few bars of _Stuck in The Middle With You_ with a cheeky grin before sitting down. I know who the clown to the left of me was, I'm not sure if the joker to right was meant to be a reference to Bones who was way to the right and at the other end of the table, but her little private joke had me giggling into my hand.

More small talk and okay-ish food followed before we were all ushered into another room where tables were laid out around a dance floor and a band with a female singer was playing as people split up and sat with those they actually wanted to sit with, thank God and it was bye, bye Verity. Bones again kept himself at a distance, sitting at a table with, surprisingly, the Brigadier and his wife. This to me was odd, since I thought they weren't exactly each other's favourite people. So the Two Section gossip went anyway.

The evening winds slowly on. Charles managed a slow dance with me before fatigue and his leg had him back at the table with his arm slung across the back of my chair and as he chatted to Colonel Beck. The minor commotion of the late arrival of a small group at the other side of the room drew my attention, particularly when Bones left to met and greet them with much manly backslapping. I recognise two of them from the back, Spanner with his wife Louise looking smart and missing his ginger face-bush, and Peanut whose muscular bulk filled out his Mess Uniform like he'd been poured into it with very little room to spare. The SF boys had arrived.

Colonel Beck touched Charles' arm and drew his attention to the group with a nod. "The S.F. team from Belize are here finally. You wanted to speak to them?"

"Yes. Saying thank you is the least I can do." Charles replied before turning to me. "Will you be okay here, or do you want to come?"

"I'm fine here with Emily. You go do your thing." He smiled and pressed a kiss to my forehead as he stood up with Beck. "Play nice with Bones."

Charles rolled his eyes in reply before heading off to the other side of the room. I watched his progress with a vested interest.

"His mobility is looking better." Emily said. "Barely any limp at all."

"He has good and bad days but he's being working hard to achieve it. I'm really proud of–"

My words faded out as Peanut moved his bulk to the side revealing his female companion and I see Charles stop dead in his tracks.

"Is that?" Emily asked, sounding concerned.

"Georgie? It certainly is."

"Are you okay?"

"I am if he is." I said, watching as Charles seemed to get a grip of himself and continued towards the group.

"You think you should go over there?"

"She's no threat to me anymore, Emily. I just don't want him getting upset or stressed."

Charles with Beck is absorbed into the small circle of SF guys which now seems to be missing Bones, oddly. Handshakes and smiles follow. If Charles' express seems a little stiff, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one able to recognise it. Georgie, as ever, looks flawless, but it's telling they way she steps towards Peanut and away from Charles when they are finally face to face. More polite smiles, a few words and then Beck and Charles are heading back towards our table again.

Charles sits, takes my hand in his, lifts it to his lips then holds it clasp in his own in his lap and I study him carefully for short time.

"You okay?"

He smiles, but I can see the strain. Emily touches my shoulder briefly as she takes Tom's hand and leads him away towards the dance floor, leaving as alone at the table.

"You're here, we're together. That's all I need. Seeing Georgie was difficult, but I'm completely fine."

"Promise?"

"Absolutely."

"I love you."

"Ditto." That smile of his and the warmth in his eyes in bleedin' everything.

 **ooOOoo**

It's amazing how wine and good company make these events so much more bearable. Charles managed another slow dance before Spanner came over to take me for a slightly more energetic turn on the dance floor as the singer crooned out a bluesy ballad version of, _I Want to Dance with Somebody_. I get the bonus of catching Charles indulging in some chair dancing that I duly take the piss out of him about.

 **ooOOoo**

It's a couple of hours later as I'm heading to the bar for a final round of drinks before we're thinking about heading home when Bones makes his presence know again as I'm caught by the elbow and spun out onto the dance floor with a flourish.

"You look delectable as ever, Dawesey."

"Flattery will get you absolutely no where as ever, Bones."

He throws his head back and laughed, drawing attention from people around us, not that he gives a shit.

"That's what I enjoy about you, Molly. The slap-downs, like verbal foreplay."

A make a very unladylike snorting noise and his grin just gets wider.

"Wasn't expecting any attention from you tonight since you came with company."

He makes a show of blinking at me comedically slowly. "Not sure what you mean, Dawesey?"

I shake my head at him. "The blond bint you came with?"

"Jealous?" I laugh in response and he pretends to look wounded. "Ah well, can't blame a man for hoping and wishing." he said with a dramatic sigh.

"Behave, or I'm cutting this dance short."

"The blond bint, as you charmingly called her, is my sister Amelia." he said, looking over to where said blond is standing with the brigadier's wife chatting. "And the woman she is talking to is our mother."

"The lady who's with the Brigadier?" I ask, something unfathomable occurring to me suddenly.

He tilts his head cheekily. "Are you referring to Mrs Brigadier McPhail?"

"I think I might be." I said uncertainly.

"Go on, Dawesey, you know you're dying to say it out loud, and I think you might explode if you don't speak soon."

"So…the Brigadier is your father?"

"Give the girl a cigar." Bones said with a sardonic grin. "Step-father, actually, and Amelia is my half-sister. You could say my mother married up after my Dad was killed in Iraq. So, when I say I know complicated families I _really_ mean it."

"I'm sorry, I should have called her that." I said, inwardly squirming.

"What is it they say: assume makes an ass out of u and me? Don't worry about it. She will have a giggle out of it when I tell her later."

"Don't bleedin' do that."

"She a lot less stuck up than her present company." he said as the Brigadier moves to stand between the two women.

"Like that is it?"

Bones rolled his eyes. "Less said the better."

"It's fine, my dad's a tosser most of the time. He's a tit the rest of it."

Bones laughed. "Maybe they're related?"

"How does that work then, being in a relations chain of command."

"Not normally a problem when I'm in SF, but he making a point at the moment, but since there are two layers of Colonel and a Major standing between us rank wise, he getting around it just fine."

We glide around in an elegant circle and I have to concede he's a good dancer.

I nod towards Georgie and Peanut. "So that's new?"

"I think it's more about looking out for her than romantic. I spoke to the guys after we spoke. They've been keeping an eye on her."

He's surprised me, and I think he can read that surprise on my face. Of course, he's enjoying it way too much.

"What, are you surprised that I'm not the complete wanker that you thought I was?"

"Maybe."

"You asked me to keep an eye on her, didn't you?"

"I was more thinking of referring her for counselling or something. Getting Elvis' guys to look out for her is so…"

"Considerate? Thoughtful? Clever?"

"Yeah, all of those. Thank you, Bones."

He nods with the same grin. "No problem. Just doing my job."

He's done more than his job would require for Georgie, and we both know it, but if he doesn't want a fuss, I'm happy enough to leave it alone.

"Georgie being here. How's that working. Awkward?"

"It would be if I let it."

"Balls of steel as ever. If I had a hat on, I'd take it off to you."

"I can hold onto or let it go. Letting it go is part of getting over it."

"How's your Rupert doing?"

"You could use his name, you know."

"Just wouldn't be me though, would it?"

I laugh. He's right.

"Doing okay. Physically it's all good. Started the counselling which is a work in progress but he throwing himself into it."

"Things between you better?"

"We're talking properly at last. I didn't realise how much we stopped talking since Elvis died. It was the one thing he and I always found easy all the way back to when we first met. We had a blow up, that night I called, and we went out in Farnham. Afterward things just came out."

"Had a come to Jesus moment, did you?"

"You could say that."

"Damn. There go my chances of a drunken fumble tonight." I can't help myself but laugh loudly and inappropriately.

"Enough, already."

"Blow job in the carpark? Dry hump in the back of a car?"

"You know, if things had been different, the younger me would have been up for it. It would have been enjoyable and meaningless and hurt no-one. But the man over there, the one that's throwing daggers your way, by the way, showed me when it means more, it's more important."

Bones turned us around in a half circle smoothly in time with the music so he could look towards Charles and then completed the circle.

"Yeah, going by his expression, he'd have shot me between the shoulder-blade by now if he could."

"Try not to enjoy it too much."

With devilment in his eyes, he grins wider. "You know me too well. I am enjoying it, just a bit, but I'm glad for you, that it's working out. You seemed to have something good together before Elvis died."

The expression on his face in sincere. The usual piss taking sneering completely gone.

"My Nan has a saying about someone being good people. You're good people, you just hide it well."

Bones grinned, looked over my shoulder pointedly, then dropped a smacker off a kiss onto my lips.

I step back with a glare. "What the hell, Bones!"

"You can thank me for the angry sex you have later another time." he said with a mocking salute timed perfectly with the end of the song.

"Very well hidden." I snapped, annoyed as I think he planned for me to be. "The sooner you're on that plane to Bangladesh, the better!"

"See you later, Dawesey."

"Not if I see you bleedin' first!"

He just winks, waves and walks away into the crowd and with one cheeky gesture succeeds in giving Charles an invisible two finger salute without ever speaking to him once. Kudos where it's due. He's bastard, but he's bloody good at it.

ooOOoo

I wake up next morning to Charles stroking my hair away from my face and open my eyes to his camo clad chest and smiling eyes.

Flipping back the quilt that I have practically pulled up to my ears, I stretch with satisfying groan and pull myself up to sit back against the pillows.

Charles lips drop to mine, and he says good morning properly. He smells of his amazing but ridiculous expensive ginger and bergamot shower gel and tastes like mint and coffee.

"Mmhh, what a nice way to wake up. The only thing that would make it better is a–"

He reaches behind him and presents me with tea in my favourite mug.

"You doubt me?"

"Not ever again." I say, watching him over the rim of my mug as sugary, tea heaven fills my mouth and chases the slight I might have had too much wine last night taste away.

Charles heads over to the bathroom, scooping dirty clothes off the floor, both his and mine, from last night because, well, we had other things on our mind than the laundry basket into which he drops them before returning back to the bed.

He's limping slightly, a sign that he over did it last night, probably with the driving since he'd volunteered to be designated driver. He has a day in barracks ahead of him. Part of his phase return to work around therapy and physio.

"You ready to head out?"

"I've got a bit of time yet."

"Feeling okay about it?"

"I'll be mostly riding a desk. Beck apparently has some training records and budgets for me to look at. Then I've got a meeting with McClyde as a handover before he leaves for Bangladesh."

I pull a face, which Charles copies in his own way. I would assume neither expression is going to be particularly attractive.

I'm wondering how to bring up last night, the angry sex that Bones promised, which was actually more like possessive, slightly bossy, smoking hot sex–not that I'm complaining. But the last thing I need is for his first day back at work to be messed up with any confusion about me and Bones. I walked this road with him and Smurf, and I'm wiser for it. Despite usual being the best-looking guy in a room while being brilliant at his job and an all-round top bloke, my lovely husband has a bit of an insecure streak and I don't need that raising its head while he got PTSD sitting on his shoulder.

"You and Bones in an office. How's that going to work out?"

"We're both professionals, even if he's still a tosser. I'm sure it will be fine."

"You could always take your Sword of Honour along for company." I suggest, just a little bit tongue in cheek.

"He may well show me exactly where to shove it, so I think perhaps not."

"You know there nothing going on with me and Bones, right? He a serial shit head and a flirt, but that's it."

"What was that term that Jade used to call her boyfriend she caught cheating?"

"A scum sucking man-whore?"

"Yep, McClyde is definitely that, and attracted to you to boot."

I shake my head ready to argue the point.

"We both know it's true. Do I trust you? 100% Do I trust him around you. Not a bit, but if he wants to needle me by flirting with you in front of me, that just makes him the same old tosser he ever was, and me an idiot for letting it get to me last night." At this he looks kind of bashful.

I loop my arms around his neck and hug him.

"He's also a tosser" –I try to copy his posh pronunciation of the insult and fail miserably which has Charles laughing– "who's off to the other side of the world tomorrow, so I think we can put him back in his box and forget about him for a few more years, yeah?"

With a peck on his lips, I gulp down the last of my tea and take a step towards the shower. Charles catches my hand and swings me back towards him for a standing hug.

"I thought you might have a lie in. You're not picking up Sam from Rebecca until after school?"

"I'm going to drive you in, and pick you up afterwards. No driving for you Limpy-McGee."

He pulls a face, because I am kind of nagging, but it's necessary.

"Depends. Do I get to take you and Sam out to dinner afterwards?" He asks.

"Indian?"

"Chinese?"

"Mexican?"

"Fish and chips."

"Deal."

ooOOoo

I'm walking back to the car with a chattering at hundred miles an hour Sam running along at my side when my mobile rings.

Sam pulls a face at the possible delay to going to pick up his Dad, while I make an apologetic face back and chuck him the car keys, which he happily catches and lets himself into the car with.

"Hello?"

"Good afternoon, Dawesey. Saw you dropping your old man off today. You were looking good considering your wine intake last night."

"Bones, to what do I owe this pleasure?" I say, less than warmly.

"Like that is it?"

"Yes, just like that."

He laughs.

"I'll get straight to it then. Just a heads up, the collected wisdom of ten brains cells or more that make up your former Section have arranged a goodbye cake and coffee get together for your Rupert before he leaves tonight. If you want to see them, and because I believe it would improve the overall IQ total in the room, you might want to collect him from barracks before four and join them? Ashton Meeting room, C block, if you're interested. I had your name added to the visitor list at the Guard House."

 **ooOOoo**

We're climbing back into the car two hours later, and Charles looks exhausted. Sam is in the back beeping away on some game on his Dad's phone following a small strop because Two Section polished off the cake so there were no left overs for little people to take home.

My boys said goodbye to their beloved Bossman today, and I know he found it hard, because he not leaving with them.

Georgie was there looking stunning, put together and tight with a tension that I'm pretty sure only I could see. Though Bones, who spent the proceedings propping up the wall while Two Section chatter up a storm and stuffed themselves with cake, spent a fair bit of time 'observing' Georgie from the side-lines.

"You okay?" I ask, and he rolls his head on the headrest to look at me.

His hand reaches out for mine, and our finger clasp, before he lifts my hand to his mouth, kissing the back before holding it in his lap.

"I'm fine."

"I know that was difficult for you."

"It was the end of something that's been a huge part of me for a long time, but I'm okay with it. This injury means I'm going to be behind a desk for a long while yet." He touches his head with a wry grimace. "This injury means something different. I'm still figuring out what journey that's going in to take us on."

"I know you'd want to be going off with them."

"Part of me does, yes, but I it's an increasing smaller part of me. All of me needs and wants to be here with you. Please don't ever doubt that."

I press the start button on his enormous Ranger Rover, and the engines roars to life.

"I believe I was promised you fish and chips. Where were you thinking of going?" he asks.

I take in the dark circles under his eyes and make an executive decision.

"I'm thinking take away from Pollocks, with a bottle of wine, and maybe film and some Nintendo Switch. Sammie and I have Mario Cart grudge match to finish."

From the back seat, Sam shouts, "Awesome. You are _so_ going down, Molly!"

Charles smiles then leans over and whispers. "Home then, Jeeves. I want to get a good seat to see you being handed your behind at Mario Cart."

I elbow his him in the ribs none too gently and he sits back in his seat laughing his head off. I grin back, and turn the car towards home absolutely feeling like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

Charles has said goodbye to his former Company and Georgie Lane, and he's doing okay despite seeing a huge part of his life changing and moving on without him. I watch as Sam leans forwards to show Charles something on the phone screen and Charles leans back to speak to him, eyes warm with laughter and interest. Absolutely, lovingly absorbing in his son's chattering as we drive away from the barracks.

My little family is whole and happy, being driven down the A36 towards home in my husband's stupidly large car and I will be grateful every day for this single, simple, moment of perfection for the rest of my life.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen – Living Leaves Bruises**

* * *

 _PTSD is a whole-body tragedy, an integral human event of enormous proportions with massive repercussions._ _ **― Susan Pease Banitt**_

* * *

"So, tell me what we are observing here exactly?" Emily asked as she finished up her first cocktail of the evening.

"We're watching the mating habits of the humble British Squaddie. Observe the way the male holds his beer glass stiffly, while the female fiddles with her wine glass playfully." I reply, attempting a woefully awful impersonation of David Attenborough narrating a nature documentary.

Emily laughs. "No, seriously, what are we doing here acting like gooseberries."

"Well, they both think I'm being their wing-woman, so my job is to wait until I receive the nod of approval from one or both then we can pop off and leave them to it. I'm kind of hoping they get a shift on because I'm frankly Hank Marvin and I'm not sure I going to stay sober for long if don't get some food soon."

"On that subject, I concur."

My phone buzzes on the bar in front of me and I pick it up to read the text message.

"Charles or are we getting out of here already?"

"Nope, sorry. It's Charles just checking in. He driving home now and is gonna pick us up at ten-ish."

"How's he getting on with the counselling?"

"Slowly. He turned down the residential placement because he didn't want to be separated, so he's seeing a therapist but I think it's not having the impact he was hoping. He's frustrated with himself because he feels he's not getting the control of his anxiety that he wants."

"He has to be patient. It's not something that was ever going to have a quick fix."

"He's not looking for I quick fix. That's not what I'm saying. I know, he's putting the work in but he's struggling with it."

"And your course?"

"Classes start six weeks and counting, but I'm transferring to the Military Unit at Selly Oak in two weeks. I've still not found I solution to were to stay and the distance. Unless something else comes up, he'll be returning to Bulford, so Bath makes senses as a base for him but it's more than a two-hour commute for me." I shrug. "I don't have the answer to that issue yet."

"The offer's still there to stay at my parents' place in Bloxham. It's still an hour commute either way, but it's at least in the middle for you both. It's being renovated but there's an annex in pretty good nick. They've moved out and are going to sell up eventually so it might be a bit noisy with the builders but could be a compromise until you find a better solution. You'd be doing them a favour keeping an eye on the place. Have a think about. The keys are yours if you need them."

It's a workable compromise with the way that Charles keep clamming up whenever I try to talk to him about me sorting out accommodation closer to Birmingham. He's trying to work his head out about it in counselling and I'm trying to give him the space to work it out but his PTSD induced separation anxiety, for want of a better term, is still an issue and needs careful handling. Realistically speaking, I could manage to commute if he needed it to support his healing, but I know what Emily going to say about that, and she'd be right. Long shifts and long drives don't go well together.

Emily is nobody's fool and I suspect has realised this is a problem between us, probably prompting the house offer. If I've learning anything about Emily Beck, it's that she never says or does anything by accident. She is about the most intimidatingly together person that I've ever met.

I lean over and manage a one-armed hug without departing company from my bar stool.

"You're an amazing mate, you know that? I'm gonna missing you when I'm in Birmingham."

"I'm going to miss you, too, but Birmingham is not so far away." She said, draining her glass. "Next round on you I think?"

"No problem!" I hold my hand up and smiling winningly at the barman. "Same again?"

"Why not, as long as we have something nice and carby to soak it up before I have to totter to my front door."

"Mojito and a Cosmo, please. I could definitely go for some pasta or pizza after this."

Looking over towards Jacs and Matt, some flirty hair flicking appears to be going on, and judging by the smile on his face, Matt appears to be into it. All the talk about food has my stomach grumbling embarrassingly loudly, which has Emily grinning with a pointed look in its direction.

"God, don't! It's embarrassing enough. The Ward was insane today. All I managed was to stuff half a sandwich in my gob and down a mug of tea while running around like a mad woman."

"No judgement from me, I'm in complete agreement with your stomach. Do you think there's a way to hurry them up?"

"Doubtful, but I think it's looking good so far."

"Molly James, match-maker. Who knew?"

"The timing was just good, so I went for it and here, as you could say, we are. It had to be tonight, were stupidly busy for the next couple of weekends, then away."

"The Anniversary?"

"Of Smurfs birthday, yeah. We always try to go to Newport about this time every year. Visit Laugharne, and drop in on Candy, Smurf's mum. Charles arranged it this time. He's booked a room at the Corran resort." I fiddled on my phone until I found the hotel's website and showed it to Emily.

"I like the idea of celebrating someone birth instead of death."

"That was Candy's idea. She wanted to remember both their births rather than when either of her boys died. It gives her comfort."

"Looks lovely." Emily said, handing my phone back.

"He's pushing the boat out a bit. We've got Sam that Friday, and Lego Land."

Emily pulled face, illustrating her dislike of all things theme-park related since she was not a fan of fast rides or heights. Which was a pity for her since both her girls and husband are huge fans.

"Then Rebecca is picking Sam up and taking him into London for the weekend. We've got the flat to pack up, stuff to shift back to Bath, so he said he thought we'd both deserve a bit of luxury. It is going to be freaking crazy before we get to four poster beds and spa pools."

My phone buzzes again with a text from Jackie this time. The date is going swimmingly, apparently. She gets up with handbag and heads towards the bathroom, giving me a smile as she passes us by. Matt leans back in his chair and watches her go, before turning to me with a raise eyebrowed expression, which says I'm busted as dual wing-woman. Oh well. I guess they are on their own now.

"And I believe that's our cue to leave. Still fancy, pizza?" I said sliding off the bar stool as Emily followed. "You can tell me more about your parents' house. God knows, it's the closest I've got to a place to lay my head and I've got less than two months to go."

 **ooOOoo**

Shift work is exhausting. Leaving Charles behind in bed at the arse crack of dawn to drive from Bath to Birmingham is exhausting. I miss Frimley, my mates there and Emily and on my worst days I wonder if I was better off as a CMT, break you back heavy backpacks, barrack bogs, Squaddies and all.

Then I get good feedback from a superior. A patient I'm fond of get discharged and I know I've done my job well. The first coursework I sweated buckets over comes back with an okay mark and I realise–maybe I can do all this. Then life is good and I feel like I'm getting things sorted and for a while life lets me enjoy a moment of smugness in the sun. Right before it slaps me back down to earth again, because nobody ever has all the answers to all the questions and sorted isn't something anyone gets to enjoy for long.

Colonel Beck called with the news, and the Regimental jungle drum broadcast the rest. I was numb that day, I'm not going to lie.

On a wet Friday in August Captain Johnathan McClyde was laid to rest in a leafy cemetery near Reigate in Surrey with full military honours in a family plot with his father.

Much was made by the vicar about his courageous service to his country to the large collection of people who attended the service, many of whom were in uniform, not so many not. It all reminded me sickeningly of Elvis funeral all over again. The same familiar face of his squad in attendance as an honour guard.

His mother leaned on the arm of the Brigadier. Wet cheeked and hollowed out with his sister beside her. Speeches were made, songs sung and prayers said, and throughout it all, all I could think was that Bones would have either hated every minute of it or taken the piss out of the whole things. Perhaps a bit of both. He had no kids do which was a blessing but his sister and niece and nephew followed the coffin.

I guarded Charles like I was on sentry duty in a war zone that whole day. It wasn't difficult, he kept a death grip on my hand all through the service and gathering afterwards.

Charles was a bit withdrawn since he found about Bones death and the circumstances around it. I knew how his mind worked, how he'd linger on thoughts of duty and guilt since, but for a boar trap in Belize, he would have been on that Tour, not Bones. I'd settle it in my own mind that he just needed time to work through it. So, if he held me a bit tighter in bed at night or asked me to check-in with him a bit more frequently when I was away from him, I was okay with it because it was what his anxiety needed to keep a calm in his nut. He was home, getting the support he needed, and would find his feet again.

The call from the Brigadier came just days later. The thought that the Brigadier would contact him to discuss the needs of his Unit afterwards never occurred, I suspect, to either of us, and his reaction to the request to come in to a meeting was scaring me.

I want to scream at him please don't do this but I can see it wouldn't help. He had that same expression is on his face, just like before. Shut down, shut off, like I'm losing him again.

A juvenile part of me wants to remind him that we have a life outside of what the Brigadier wants. A day planned at Lego Land with his son and a weekend to spend in Wales bought and paid for. What about that? What about our lives. Why were the Brigadier's needs and demands more important than what we needed and wanted?

I never said anything, my fears strangling the words.

Standing in the living room, watching the tension in his back and the way a muscle is jumping in his jaw, I know my words won't help, because his mind is already too full with his own thoughts. Instead I try to cox him to talk to me.

"Do you want me to stay with you, maybe talk about it?"

"No, no that won't be necessary. I need to head into barracks."

And there it is, his go to reaction. The step off the cliff that I'd been dreading. His single-minded focus on work, like he's blinkered and unable to see the rest of our life missing him, moving on around him. Just like before.

Surrendering, I accept my role in this as silent observer. I can't save him from himself, he needs to be able to recognise his own triggers, and negative behaviours.

"Okay, I'll sort Sam out."

"Sam?" He's already reaching for his car keys ready to leave me to pick up the pieces.

"Yes, Sam, Lego Land?" I say calmly, but part of me wants to yell _remember?_ Like I would have done before he left for Belize.

"Okay, good, thanks."

"You'll call me later?"

The door slams behind him and he forgets to say goodbye as I sit down on chair that's still warm from where he was sitting with me eating breakfast minutes before and try not to let the tears clogging up the back of my throat loose.

 **ooOOoo**

I take Sam out as promised with my fun step mum face firmly strapped on and use over tired and over stimulated as an excuse to drop him off a bit earlier with Rebecca. Sam got his outing. I held it together. Inside I'm a quaking mess because I don't know what to do next.

The house is empty when I get in and the silence that greets me strangles the last bit of hope I had that he would be home and it was all going to be okay.

I text him, then call. He answers me on my third attempt and I try to get him to engage with the shit storm of worry that's brewing inside me. All I get is half attention and sort of apologies and he's got to go and I give in.

I check one thing, the one thing I think my give him a safety net even if he's not capable of recognising he needs it- that Colonel Beck is involved and get a yes in response.

I suggest that I might head up to London to see my parents, just to see if he'll react to a change of plans. He doesn't. Instead I get a distracted confirmation that he understood and a short goodbye and he's gone, again.

The bags for our weekend away are still in the back of the car, the hotel is still booked. I'm not willing to put life on hold while he sorts out his head. I did it before, all it did was breed resentment and anger, and he needs to realise the cliff he going to drive himself off of if he doesn't recognise what he doing.

Candy is expecting us to visit tonight, and I'm not willing to let her down. We've built a little tradition on this day each year, and I want to celebrate the life of my friend and his brother with the people who were important to him.

So, I climb into the car and leave.

 **ooOOoo**

The hotel is a lovely as he promised. Shame he's not here to enjoy it with me. I took myself off for a run around the grounds and a swim in the spa after I arrived, trying to shake of my slightly sour mood.

Meeting with Candy was nice. Every year she seems to be a in a better place. She moved recently. Said she wanted to let go of some of the memories that her old place held. Her new house is nice, not huge, but in a pleasant area and she picked it because it has a bit of extra space because she thinking about becoming a foster carer. She proudly showed me the literature she got together and said she was very serious about starting the training with her local council.

Smurf would have been happy. It's taken some time but his mum has found her feet again and is living her life. I'm happy for her.

The door of our room makes a clicking noise as it unlocks with the plastic card thingy, and I push it open with my hip as I juggle a wine glass and bottle of wine I'd collected from the bar after my run. Alcohol for one, how depressing.

It's still early. Not quite six-thirty. We had reservations for dinner tonight, but I've cancelled them. Food isn't very appealing to me and the idea of sitting at a dinner table alone like Norma no mates isn't winning me over.

My intention is shower, wine and bed. The run should do its job with a glass of wine and let me get some sleep. I've had enough of this bloody day.

 **ooOOoo**

I wake up to the quiet murmur of my name and the familiar scent of his aftershave, and I know I must be imaging things.

Lying on my side, I open to my eyes to a room in slowly fading half-light and Charles lying next to me such that we are practically nose to nose.

"I told him no." he says quietly, dark eyes looking deeply into mine and I can see that he is worried by what I'm going to say in response.

My answer is to dissolve into load, ugly sobs of relief because I can't find a single world to say above the release of emotion. He gathers me up against his chest, murmuring apologies and I loves you while I cry into the soft material of his shirt.

Then there kissing, and more crying–both of us. The removal of layers of clothes for skin to skin contact, and then reconnection and release.

 **ooOOoo**

Lying boneless and content on his chest in the aftermath, I make a confession.

"Bones was good officer and soldier, but I'm glad it was Bones that went to Bangladesh and not you. I know I'm going to hell for thinking it, but I can't help it. That's selfish of me, isn't it?"

He strokes me my hair reassuringly and sighs heavily, such that his chest rises and falls under my cheek.

"I don't think it's selfish, so much as human."

"You scare me today." I said quietly, able to tell him now that were skin to skin with our barriers down.

"I scared myself."

"Let's not do that again, okay?"

"I'll try my best. I promise."

* * *

Emm, I appear to be killing off a lot of OG characters this week. Apologies for that.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen – Bruises Leave Marks**

* * *

 _The dealing with grief cannot be bypassed. It is a road you must walk, a race you must finish and no one else can do it for you. If you try to sneak through it without it seeing you, it will seep into your life when you least expect it. Grief will not let you go until you satisfy what it came to teach you._

 ** _― Kate McGahan_**

* * *

M5 on a Thursday afternoon and thirty miles away from home. Can. Not. Wait!

I'm at the end of a four-day run of twelve-hour shifts, exhausted but happy because now I'm home for three straight days–bloody bliss. Charles is off tomorrow and we've got and Sam staying for a couple of days, and I'm as excited for the weekend to start as a toddler hyped on Haribo. Tigger has got nothing on me for bounciness.

 **ooOOoo**

Home and Just-call-me-Gordon-Ramsey James has made a lovely dinner all from scratch ready for me getting back. Lemon pasta, cheese cake all washed down with a couple of glasses of white wine, then we curl up on the sofa together with a plan to watch something undemanding on Netflix but in the end, the TV stayed off. Both of us instead took to staring at the shifting flames of the lit log burner and talking quietly. The log burner is a toy that Charles insisted we had fitted for ambiance when we first moved into this house. I said he wanted it to keep his inner caveman happy. Both remarks are probably true, but it very quickly became my favourite place in the house to be cuddling up and just enjoy being together. When we were struggling, I used to actively avoid this room. The memories of what we'd had compared to how far apart we became being too much to face. We've come a long way since then.

Mellowed out on a wine and warmth induced bubbled of contentment, I'm considering whether it's worth moving to get another glass of wine, when his voice breaks the comfortable silence between us.

"I've been thinking…"

"Dangerous."

"Think that's my line."

"We're married. What's yours is mine and all that."

"Hmm, does that include my snoring?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

He chuckles, arms tightening so he's practically curling his whole body over and around me before he settles back into the sofa.

After a while, I ask, "Go on then, what were you thinking about?"

Charles sighs and I can sense a shift in his mood so I sit up so I can see his face. Unhelpfully, the hair that I had carefully pinned to my Barnet in a French plaint–which he decided to let loose– falls across my face and his hands come up, tucking the loose strands behind my ears as he smiles a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Charles?"

"I've been thinking it's time to do something about Elvis's stuff."

Studying his face, I take a moment to consider my answer. I can feel the tension building in him while he's waiting for my answer, but his hand against my face as he strokes my cheek is steady and there is a resolve in his eyes that says he's been thinking a lot about this decision.

He's had so much to deal with and I know Bone's death weighs heavily on him. Not just because he feels he should have been out in Bangladesh not Bones, but also because he wasn't there, in the aftermath, to support his boys. For me, it hurts to see him hurting but it is also good to see him genuinely feeling things again after he'd been so numbed and withdrawn since Elvis death.

He has struggled through so much and I know he still has a long way to go, but I knew this issue would have to be addressed at some point. I guess I'd been hoping he might have given him self a bit more time to heal before picking at this particular painfully scabbed over wound.

Lovely Elvis, always with the best intentions and the worst bleeding deliver. It started with a promise made to each other after a drunken night out when they were both still at Sandhurst. That they would be each other's next of kin contacts so neither of their families would have to take _that_ call, without hearing the news first from someone more familiar than an Army bereavement officer.

It's a reality you have to be aware of, doing the job that we do. All serving personnel go through the death talk. It's a part of Basic Training. Wars graves and poetry. Writing that first last letter.

Of the two of them, Charles was always the cooler headed one, the planner but this had apparently been Elvis's idea. I wonder if Elvis ever thought Charles would need to be that person, that such a thing would ever happen to him. He was always such a live in the moment person, but he'd been the person to deal with aftermath of Charles getting shot in Afghanistan. So, I know he knew what it meant to be that person. The barer of news that might make or break a family.

Tragically, Charles had honoured his best friend by being the person to contact his parents, putting his on grief to one side in the process to stay strong for them. I'd admired him for his strength at the time. I know now everything that it cost him to fulfil his promise to his friend. I'm not sure it was a cost worth making, in the end. The fracturing of the Officer and the man he used to be and his struggles to rebuild all that he lost afterwards… that was where it all began.

"Are you ready for that?"

I'm pretty sure my worry shows on my face and his sad answering smile is so telling. He doesn't want to deal with this anymore than I want him to have to, but it has to be addressed. I might want to hide us both away, to protect him from the world, because it's a cruel fucking place to be exposed to sometimes, but that's not how life works.

"I'm never going to be ready, but I want to move on from this. I need my memories of him to be the good ones again, instead of–"

His voice cracks, leaving the sentence unfinished. I know what he means to say. Good memories instead of ones of his friend dying. I squeeze his hand, giving silent support while he gathers himself together again, then stand and turn to face him. His hands come up to my hips pulling me towards him and between his legs as buries his head against my chest and I run my hands through his hair.

"Dealing with this might be a start." he says quietly, calmer.

"Okay. I'll get it for you."

"I love you, so much. I hope you know that. I'm not sure I say it enough."

"You do." I say, breaking away from him gently. "You do, I promise."

It is a very ordinary object to be so emotion filled. How could it not be emotive? Seeing the on-tour belongings of a larger than life loved one fitted into the capacity of a cardboard box. It broke my heart every time I saw it. Which is why it has been gradually moved to the very back of the spare room wardrobe, and covered with unused clothes. As if hiding it would erase the contents from memory like a guilty secret. Fat chance, in my experience secrets kept quiet bite twice a hard when they come back to life.

He's moved from the sofa to the rug in front of the fire by the time I return to the room with the box. The coffee table has been moved back, leaving a space in front of where he is sitting on the floor with a pensive expression on his face.

I place the box down, and wait to see how he wants to do this. Whether I should stay or go. He holds his hand out to me, and I reach to take it, following his gentle tuck to come down to sit on the rug with him, cradled in front of him, my back to his chest. He pulls the box towards us so that we can look through it together.

 **ooOOoo**

It took him a long time to drop off, even after a long shower together, and other marital activities. Going through Elvis stuff has left us both emotionally sore, and needing the comfort and connection of making love and falling asleep in each other's arms. Except, sleep wasn't coming. For me at least.

Everything in that bloody box keeps going around and around in my head. The sum of a life on tour laid out in individual possessions that his parent hadn't wanted returned because it was too painful for them. It was more than my brain could take in in as we'd gone through it all. Hours later, lying quietly beside Charles listening to the reassuring sound of his breathing, I work through it in my nut. When I'm calmer, I know what I want to keep out of the box.

Charles kept a few things. Some books, Elvis's mission note books, his St Christopher Medallion. Not that Elvis was religious but it had been a gift from his parents and Charles wanted to keep it for them just in case they changed their mind. It was one of those shitty things in life, that his Army career which was such a source of pride for his family was also a source of pain for them after his death.

I lifted Charles arm off of my waist and wiggle out from under the weight of his leg which he has thrown of mine, and leave him sleeping to head back down stairs. The box is still in the living, set aside by the sideboard.

It was easy enough to find. A leather wallet style photo frame which was a copy of one that my Nan's father used to carry with him during his service in the Second World War. Nan had showed it to Charles who'd always been fascinated by stories about her Dad. I'd borrowed it and had a copy made as a present and Charles took it with him on tour. Elvis had admired it, and I duplicated the present idea for him one birthday. I remember being please with myself for managing to recycle the same gift idea twice. Never thought I'd be getting it back from Elvis in these circumstances.

Holding the photo wallet in my hand, I can't help myself when my eyes lift to the photo of Elvis and Charles at our wedding sitting on the mantel. Elvis larger than life grinning beside a smiling Charles. Both in dress uniform. Both too handsome for words. Frozen in time on the paper of the photo, alive and happy on the steps outside the church. It was put away after Elvis died. Both of us finding it too painful to look at on a daily. It only returned to its former position when Sam had asked where it had gone because he missed seeing the picture of his uncle.

It's the way things should be. Time is moving on and we're slowly learning how to let Elvis go, but it's hard. So very hard. Tears start trailing down my face without me even realising I'm crying.

"Hey, you okay?" Charles asks, his warm hand against my back and I turn into his arms as instinctively as breathing.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"As if I wouldn't notice you being gone." he says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

I hold the photo wallet out for him to see.

"You decided to keep something after all?"

"Yeah. Then I ended up crying like a right girl. Stupid bloody, knob-head of a big brother I never wanted. S'all his fault." I grumble against the skin of Charles' neck. "Setting me off, again. He would have enjoyed taking the piss out of me about it, too. 'You can't hold your wine, Mols?', he'd say."

Charles laughs softly.

"He left a large gap to fill in everybody's life. Lovable bastard." he says. "Come on, it's cold down here, lets get back to bed before you wake up tomorrow with a cold and try to blame Elvis for that as well."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen – Marks Heal**

* * *

 _When we feel weak, we drop our heads on the shoulders of others. Don't get mad when someone does that. Be honored. For that person trusted you enough to, even if subtly, ask you for help._

 ** _― Lori Goodwin_**

* * *

My Dad's favourite saying that I need a check-up from the neck up is springing to mind while I'm staring at the results of my recent shopping laid out on the kitchen counter. Why? Because, I'm waiting for inspiration, the second coming of Jesus, or some other sort of divine intervention to rescue me from being a dimwit. That's why.

We have the loveable hurricane of energy that is Sam staying tonight, and I made the mistake of asking him what he wanted to do. His answer was 'eat brownies'. Simple enough you'd think? Except, not, since what he actually meant by eat brownies is eat brownies that _I'm_ to make like my Nan's, who happens to be a pretty good baker, unlike me. I mean, has the child met me? Fish-finger butties are about the height of my cooking endeavours. Since my Nan is currently unavailable for flying baking visits–on a trip to Brighton with her bingo crowd–I'm officially doomed.

My genius solution is the box of Betty Crocker triple chocolate brownie mix sitting in front of me. Only, I just realised that I forgot the eggs and we don't have a flaming baking tray the right size. Mind you, flaming is likely to be the outcome if I ever get these into the damn oven in the first place.

Charles will be at work until he collects Sam on his way home, so I'm not going to get help there. I'm contemplating heading back out to the shops when the doorbell goes. Grumbling to myself, I open it to be faced with Georgie freaking Lane.

"Is he here?" she demands. "I need to see him. Charlie!"

The words, _what the fuck_ don't have the chance to leave my mouth, even though they are thundering around in my head, as she takes a step to the side, like she trying to see passed me into the house.

Straightening my back, I'm ready to ask her what the hell is she doing here, at her former CO's house, being fifty shades of bloody inappropriate _yet again_ but there is something about the nervous way she is shifting her weight from foot to foot, and the agitated look in her eyes, that makes me stop.

This isn't a version of Georgie I've ever met before. She is in combats, crumbled very worn combats. Her hair, that should have been tied back in a regulations style, is mussed up and trailing down her back loose. She is make-up less, which is not unusual, since Georgie is annoyingly blessed with the kind of looks that can get away without wearing any without looking like a badger's arse, but her face is bruised and scratched up. There are huge sodding black bags under her eyes which suggest that sleep isn't something that she has experienced in a while. When she lifts her arm to run her hand through her hair, I notice the bandage.

Normally perfectly put together, gorgeous without obvious effort, tough as boots Georgie Lane looks like hell and she standing on my door step unravelling.

 _Shit._

"What's going on, Georgie? What happened to your arm and face?"

"Cut the crap, Molly. Is he here or not?"

I can feel my eyes-brows rising at her tone given that one call to right person would have her removed by an MP, but before I have a chance to challenge her, she's barged passed me into the house and she is in an out of the kitchen yelling his name by the time I've slammed the front door shut behind me.

"Charlie!"

"What the hell are you doing here, Georgie?" I snap as she tries to step passed me to the stairs.

"I need to see him!"

"No shit. One small problem, he's not here."

"Don't lie to me, you wouldn't let me see him at the hospital. I _need_ to see him now!"

"Doesn't make it any less true that he ain't here."

"Where is he?"

"He's at the barracks, so you can leave anytime you–"

Ignoring what I'm saying totally, she disappears into the living room like her arse is on fire and I follow coming to a nicely simmering boil of temper. Rushing into the room, I have to stop suddenly to avoid running straight into Georgie. She is standing stock-still with her hand to her mouth, eyes wide and damp with tears staring at the photo of Elvis and Charles that had me in tears last night.

"Georgie?"

She points to the photo, and her hand is shaking.

"Charlie has a photo he takes on tour of you both on the same stairs. You and him, all glowingly just-married and loved up. On my worst days, if I saw it, I used to think, that should have been me. Me and Elvis married and together. Because, why did you get to have a happy ending and I didn't?

"Makes me a jealous, bitch doesn't it?" she says without turning to face me. "Then I remember why weren't not together and some mornings I can't even stand look at my own face in the mirror.

"We had that one night when we finally go both our shit together. Then he was gone."

She clicks her fingers in time with the word gone. The effect of the noise and the word together is brutal, sharp and jarring like the click of a detonator before an explosion. The comparison jumps into my head, unwelcome, along with an image of Elvis maybe hearing the detonator go off before the bomb that killed him activated.

She turns to face me and looks stricken. Eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion, wide and wild grief.

"People keep telling me that time makes everything better. I've had Maisie going on about guinea pigs, rabbits and upgrades. As if I can close the fucking void in my chest with someone new. Marie telling me that I need to get over it. Like Elvis is a disease I need to shake. I smile and nod and agree, telling them and myself that maybe they're right. One day it will be different and that's what I want. And you go on, don't you? Getting up, go to work, come home… repeat… and repeat.

"Then I woke up one morning and realised I couldn't remember what he smelt like or how his laugh sounded and I asked my mother in a panic was it supposed to be like that? She said it was a _good_ thing.

"Good! How can it be a fucking good thing when that's all I've got left?"

Georgie walks over to the picture and picks it up, cradling it in her hands like it's infinitely fragile or especially precious. She runs her fingers over the outline of Elvis's smiling face, and her voice is suddenly softer.

"We didn't have enough time. And why? Because I couldn't forgive him for our wedding day. I nailed him to a proverbial bloody crucifix. For what? Picking his daughter over me. What kind of selfish, self-centred bitch does that make me?"

"The kind of person that was hurt and hurting."

She put the picture back facedown onto the mantle.

"Yeah, maybe, but I had chances. To get over it. To listen to his reasons. I decided blocking him out and telling him to go to hell was the better options, so who's the fool?"

I take a step towards her, wanting to offer her some comfort because her pain is so raw it's practically filling the room, but I feel helpless to help against the invisible force of it, because if it had been me instead of her, facing the loss of Charles, I'm not sure I'd still be standing, and I don't know what could possibly help with that kind of pain.

She holds out her hands to me.

"He died under my hands, Molly. I felt his heart stop under these hands. You can't see it, but they're covered with blood. The stain is never going to wash off. All that training, what's the point if you can't save the one person that means the world to you?"

"I don't know, Georgie. I wish I had the right words for you, but I don't."

She crumples to the floor suddenly, sobbing, and it's not the sort of noise I ever want to hear again. Like a trapped animal in agony. My knees hit the floor beside her, and I pull her half into my lap, folding myself around her until we're clinging to each other.

"What's the fucking point?" she cries.

"I don't know, Georgie, I don't know." I babble, rocking us both as she sobs into my lap and I hold her tighter, joining her in tears, because some pain just needs to be heard.

 **ooOOoo**

Like all storms, even this one comes to an end, and I eventually get us both up off the floor and onto the sofa to sit. We look at each other for a moment. Each as big a soggy, sobbed out mess as the other. Georgie breaks the silence first.

"I shouldn't have come here, I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. Well, I wasn't really thinking, was I? I just needed to see him."

"I know."

"I just got off the plane at Brize and started driving."

"You look exhausted. When did you last sleep properly?"

"Three, maybe four days ago. I think I nodded off on the plane from Bangladesh. Can't really remember." She rubs her temples like they are painful. "Of course, I was knocked unconscious by a bomb…two…no three days ago now, so you could call that sleep." She laughs, but it is a humourless sort of sound.

"Fucking hell, Georgie."

"Yeah, fucking hell it was, and a couple of months after seeing my CO blown to bits. Maybe I can be excused for having a half-scrambled brain and coming here. It's just, my family… they never mention Elvis and I need to talk about him…us. That's why I came. I just needed to talk to someone who understand what it's like to miss him the same way. Charlie… he and I…we share that. And you…"

She looks down at her hands which are clenched in her lap.

"I never stopped to think that coming would upset you too. That was selfish. I've made a bit of balls up of things… been doing that a lot recently."

"It's okay. I understand. Maybe it will help him too, to speak to you. I shouldn't have stopped you speaking to each other that day in the hospital."

"You were protecting him. I understand. It was inappropriate. Been doing _that_ a lot lately as well."

"Yes, that was the way I saw it at the time." I say as I realise something about myself. I never really _let_ myself think about Georgie's pain, I was always too busy with Charles' grief and my own.

The in-pieces and vulnerable version of Georgie in front of me suggests I've been a shitty friend to Elvis by not considering at least looking in on Georgie afterwards. Maybe I can fix that, at least a little bit, now.

I look at the clock on the wall.

"He'll be back in a couple of hours. You two can talk then."

"Are you sure you're okay with that?"

"I'm fine with it. Look, I'm going to make us a brew. You maybe need to call Marie or somebody. I don't think you should be driving back to Manchester on no sleep and…"

"In a state? I know, you're right. I'll make the call. Maybe get her to bring Fingers, he can drive my car back."

I head into the kitchen to give her some space to make the call and to give me a bit of a breather as well. I switch the kettle on and send Charles a quick text to check when he's due home.

He answers quickly with: _Be heading out in about an hour to collect Sam. Missing you. L,C xx_

The almost rhymical movements of filling the teapot, and pouring it into the mugs, adding milk, and sugar is soothing and gives me a moment to collect myself. Setting the mugs on a tray with some biscuits, I leave them aside to open a drawer and take out Elvis' photo wallet. I was looking at it again this morning. Indulging in some happy memories, even if they still feel bittersweet. I place it onto the tray with the mugs.

She sitting in the same place when I head back in with the tray. It looks like she's tried to dry her face a bit.

"You manage to catch them?" I asked, holding a mug out to her. She nods "There's enough sugar in that to stand the spoon up, as my mum would say. I know you don't take your tea sweet, but I thought it might help."

She takes a couple of mouthfuls of the tea, then places the mug down.

"Look, I know this is awkward as hell. I shouldn't have… well, we covered that. I was thinking I might go and find a café or something, wait for Marie and Fingers there so I'm not under your feet."

"Your fine, Georgie. Really. He's going to be home in a bit. I want you to have a chance to talk. I think it might help you both. It's going to take Marie and Fingers a couple of hours to get here anyway."

I pick the photo wallet up in my hand, feeling the use worn leather against my fingers. This was an item that Elvis held and looked at a lot. The creases and mark on the leather's surface show that. That meant something, something that Georgie deserved to know.

"Look, I don't know if this well help, or be to upsetting for you." I show her the photo wallet in my hand.

Georgie looks confused. "Isn't that the photo holder that Charlie keeps on his desk on tour?"

"Sort of, it's a copy. This one belonged to Elvis. I thought it might give you a bit of comfort." I extend it to her hesitantly, opening it at the same time to show the photos inside. She takes it from my hand, her own shaking.

It opens to a picture of her and Elvis cuddling grinning into the camera while holding a beer bottle between them and the other showing a photo of Laura grinning while sitting between her adoring Grandparents. She seems frozen staring at the picture of the two of them smiling and I wonder if I've done the right thing.

"I never understood the significance of the beer bottle. Elvis used to wind me up making it out to be some huge secret." I say, and I realised I'm babbling a bit, but I'm worried I've upset her even more.

She traces her fingers across Elvis image slowly, then takes a huge breath, like she's trying to collect herself.

"We got engaged on that day. He proposed by putting a message in a Grolsch bottle and left it floating in the pond in Livingston Park. I wrote my answer, put it back in the bottle and chucked back in the pond. Told him to swim for it. He got a guy fishing on the pond to get it for him, then take that picture." She chuckles while wiping her cheek again. "Grolsch. Classy. I told him he had crap taste in beer. He agreed, but said he had excellent taste in women, so that balanced all the rest of his limitation out.

"We were so happy." She passes her fingers over the picture of Laura. "Six months later he stood me up at the alter and I punished him for the next two years. Such a stupid waste of time. I never realise how little we'd get together. He was only thinking of his little girl, and I demonised him for it."

She looks devastated all over again.

I reach to take the photo wallet back, regretting my decision to offer it. "I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't have-"

She draws her hand back , holding the wallet tight to her chest and shakes her head violently.

"No, please I want it. It helps, seeing his pictures, having someone around me talk about him again." She lowers the photo wallet into her lap again, and studies them. "I thought it would get easier. That the spaces between missing him and hurting would get wider, but I hurt all of the time.

"I wake up and all I can remember is his face, slack and burnt. Eyes open and no life left. I mean how could someone so full of life like Elvis ever run out of it. And it scares me, because sometimes that's the only image of him I can bring to mind. I'm scared I'll forget get how he spoke and how he smelt because that's all I've got left."

"He wouldn't want this for you, Georgie. It would break his heart if he knew you were fretting like this.

"Don't you see, that all I've got left. I wasted the time we had left together being angry and punishing him for picking his daughter over me."

"I knew about Laura the night after he stood you up. He was at our house roaring drunk because of what he walked away from because of his daughter. I don't agree with what he did to you but he struggled to see a different path at the time. He made mistakes, too. Georgie. You need to learn to forgive yourself."

"Maybe. His parents told me they hoped I'd find love again. That Elvis would have wanted me to."

"I think they're right. Maybe you're sick of people talk at you, telling you that you'll get over it. I don't know maybe you won't, maybe you will. I _do_ know one thing for sure, Elvis would have wanted you to find happiness somehow again."

"He said something similar in his death letter."

"My GG… Great Gran, married my Nan's dad straight after school. He was her childhood sweetheart. Literally the boy next door. He was killed in the War when my Nan was quite young. She met and married the man that my Nan called Dad after the war. They were together for more than forty years. She used to say that her first husband was the love of her life, and her second was the love of the rest of her life. She believed you could have more than one love in a life time. Maybe she's right."

"She sounds like a wise lady."

"She was, but my Nan would say that most people, especially her mum, can be wise after enough gin."

Georgie snorted a laugh even as fresh tears trailed down her face. "Well, there's that, too. Can I keep this?"

"He'd have wanted you to have it, I think."

"I wish I'd kept more stuff, so I had things to bring back the memories."

"You think seeing him, hearing him might help?"

"In a thoroughly masochistic bullshit way. Yes, it would help."

I reach into the drawer of the coffee table in front of us and pull out a DVD case, showing her the title on the front cover silently. She wipes her face again and sit back on the sofa with a firm nod, and I cross the room, and slide a DVD into the player, switching the TV on with the remote in my hand.

"Sure?"

"Yeah, very sure." She says firmly.

I skip through the frames until the screen is filled with Elvis's cocky grinning face as he stands in full dress uniform, champagne glass in hand, making his best man speech at our wedding. Georgie sits forward, elbows on knees, utterly absorbed at the image of Elvis as I press play on the remote, and his voice fills the room as he hangs Charles out to dry with a retelling of their antics while I can be seen in background giggling into a po-faced Charles' shoulder.

She watches intently as the speeches, toasts and first dance play out on the screen. Not even taking her eyes away from it when I press the mug of tea back into her hand and chase her to finish it. Fresh tears appear when Elvis takes me out onto the dance floor for his first dance, while Charles is dancing with his mother.

"You okay?" She nods, eyes still intent on the screen. I put the hand control down beside her on the sofa. "I'll got us another brew, okay?"

When I return to the living room, it's to find that she's set the DVD to start from almost the beginning at the point where the camera recorded Charles and Elvis standing together at the front of the church as Elvis slaps a stoic looking Charles on the back reassuringly. When the sound of cello music starts, they both fall silent and turn to stare towards the front of the church from where I will appear eventually.

Charles' mother picked the music. Frankly, by the time we got time to the details of the service and song choices, I'd been so overwhelmed and feeling out of my depth. Trying to arrange a wedding between tours had been stressful. Talking about the music I wanted to walk down the aisle to had me cracking a joke about playing _Going to the Chapel_ and then burst into snotty tears completely out of nowhere. My wonderful mother-in-law had given me a hug and said why not let her sort that out for me. I'd been so grateful to have the responsibility lifted off my shoulders.

What she picked was beautiful. A piece called Pachelbel's Canon played by Charles's cousin Louisa on her cello and her friend on violin, both girls giving up time from studying music at university in London to come to the wedding.

I turn to explain the story behind the music, but I'd be wasting my time. Georgie is fast asleep, curled up with her head on the arm of the sofa. She's finally surrendered to what her body needs. I put the mugs of tea down on the coffee table carefully and reach for the throw rug on the back of the sofa and lay it over her gently before backing out of the room quietly.

 **ooOOoo**

I met Charles and Sam by the front door about an hour later.

Sam hugs me enthusiastically, looking up at me with his best winning smile as he asks, "Did you sort my brownies out?"

"Sort of. Can you go have a look in the kitchen and wait for me. I'll be there in a bit. I've got something you can help me with because I might have gone and made a bit of a kipper of your brownies, but I think you can help sort it out. Off you go, I'll be there in a bit."

"I had to park on the road, there's a car in the drive." Charles says drawing me into a hug. "Do you have visitor and forgot to get his brownie ingredients? I'm sure Sam will forgive you."

"Georgie is here. Came straight from the airport. She's not in a good way. She fell asleep in the living room. Her sister and Fingers are coming to collect her. She's exhausted. I didn't think she should be driving herself like that."

"Right, okay." His eyes track over my face rapidly and he takes a big breath like he's trying to calm himself. Rubbing his hands up and down my arms, he asks, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. She wants to speak to you. Do you think you can do that?"

He looks thoroughly shell-shocked, and I'm the one he's worried about? I press my lips to his, loving him just that little bit more because he is who he is. I step back from him and his arms drop to his side with relieved sigh.

"Yes, sure, it's just a bit awkward with Sam."

"I'll take him out." I squeeze his hand reassuringly because he looks worried. "Just for a bit. To your mums. I forget the eggs for his bleedin' brownies, didn't I, and we don't have a baking tray either. I'm a bit baking incompetent."

He holds his arms out to me and I go into them without hesitation, holding him as tightly as he holds me. He pulls back and presses his forehand to mine and whispers against my temple, "You know there's only you, don't you?"

"Of course."

"I love you."

"Even though I can't bake?" He laughs. "I love you, too."

He pulls back and smiles at me tentatively while I collect a protesting Sam, who's holding the bake your own brownies box accusingly as I bundle him out the door with promises that Granny will fix my baking mistakes to his exacting specifications.

 **ooOOoo**

I left Sam standing on kitchen stool, face covered in brownie mix and happily distracted by his doting Granny before headed home with a promise to collect him in a couple of hours.

Finger's car is parked over the drive when I arrive home and they're all collected in the hall ready to leave when I unlock the door.

I look over to Charles with a silent question: _you okay?_ He nods, holding his hand out to me and I cross over to his side, tucking myself against him as his arm comes around my waist.

Georgie looks subdued and exhausted, but clear eyed for all that. As she's guided towards the door by Marie with a protective arm around her waist.

Fingers stands in front of us, holding a hand out towards Charles. Charles shakes it politely.

"Good to see you, Bossman. You're looking good."

"Thanks, Fingers, I'm getting there."

He steps in front of me, arms open and we share a quick hug.

"Looking gorgeous as always, Dawesey. Don't be a stranger okay? You're due at the next Two Section gathering, okay?"

Georgie breaks away from Marie and heads over to Charles, pressing a kiss to his cheek which he accepts stiffly. She reaches up, whispering to him briefly before they exchange a loaded look and she turns to me.

"Thank you, Molly. For everything."

"It was nothing."

"It more than that, we both know that. Goodbye."

Then she's heading out the door, Charles following politely behind and something occurs to me like a bolt out of the blue. I hurry back into the living room because there's something the Georgie needs.

Charles' eyes widen as I rush passed, where he's standing on the drive, carrying Elvis' box of belongs. I stop by the passenger window of Georgie's car and she steps out with a questioning look on her face. Opening the back-passenger door, I place the box on the back seat. Georgie leans over and reads the address label on the lid, tears springing to her eyes.

"He would have wanted you to have it. There some of his clothes in there, and other stuff, including that Godawful aftershave he insisted made him a total babe magnet." Georgie grabs me up in to a too tight hug with sob and my own voice is suddenly strangled with tears. "You find a connection again and hold onto it for as long as you need. When you're ready, you'll find the strength to let go, but only when you're ready, okay?"

She smiles, squeezes my arm, then steps back an gets into the car and they leave.

Returning to the house, I find Charles in the living room, replacing the photo of him and Elvis that Georgie left face down. We both stand for and looking at the picture together. Charles pulls me into his side.

"He would have like what you did there, I think."

"I hope so. What did she whisper to you?"

"Don't make the same mistake I did and walk away from love for anyone, not even yourself."

From the safety of Charles' arms my heart breaks for Georgie all over again. She lost Elvis just as she'd found him again and that too fucking cruel for words. I pick up the frame and ran my fingers over the image of Elvis' smiling face.

"He left a hole that's difficult to fill for a lot of people. Typical of him to be such a high maintenance, loveable bastard."

"He'd have told you to get over yourself and that you love him anyway."

In that moment I can hear Elvis' response clear as if he was in the room, see his cocky grin, smell his aftershave. The moment is bittersweet. Sharp with loss but filled with humour at the same time.

"He'd have been right."


	18. Chapter 18

_Author note – tune recommendations for this: Outnumbered – Dermot Kennedy, Incredible – James TW._

* * *

 **Chapter Eighteen – Assurances**

* * *

 _Trauma is personal. It does not disappear if it is not validated. When it is ignored or invalidated the silent screams continue internally heard only by the one held captive. When someone enters the pain and hears the screams healing can begin._ _ **― Danielle Bernock**_

* * *

"No!" Charles shouts, making me jump, but he's yelling at Maria, not me. "Absolutely not. How is that progress?"

We're two months on from that bar stool discussion with Emily, and one month passed Georgie's visit. I haven't confirmed if I'm taking Emily up on her offer of staying at her parents' house because Charles is struggling and much of his early positive progress has been setback by his own mindset since Georgie's visit. I'm stuck, decision wise, regarding the house in Bloxham, a bit like Charles is with this repeated suggestion from his therapist, Maria.

It is hard for me to watch him struggle and remain quiet, but I make myself because this is for his benefit, not mine.

While he is still unfailingly polite in his responses to Maria, I can almost feel his anxious hostility coming off of him in waves.

"I understand that you've been sleeping in separate rooms for a while, why would this be an issue, Charles?"

"Separate rooms, not separate buildings. That's a step backwards not forwards."

He rakes a hand through his, agitated. I put my handout to him without thinking, and he pulls it into his lap, holding it tight within both of his like it's a life-line.

"Anyway, we're not sleeping separately anymore."

"I thought with the lucid dreaming you were concerned that you might hurt Molly. Wasn't that the reason you moved to a separate bedroom in the first place?"

Maria is a small, dark-haired women of some sort of indefinable age somewhere between forty and fifty. Smartly dressed and soft spoken with the faintest of Spanish accents, her sharp blue eyes miss nothing.

"We found a compromise. I sleep on a cot on the floor. That way we're together but separate if I have a night terror."

He's being a bit economically with the truth there. He's in bed with me more than not, because I was joining him on the floor more often than not. An issue with my insecurities this time, not his. In the end the fold out bed was put away two days after it appeared. The fact that he's not updated Maria with this, despite weeks of therapy sessions with her is telling. He's been hiding stuff from a person he should be showing complete honestly.

"Have you been having lucid dreams recently?"

"No, thank God."

"That's good, really good progress." She encourages to no positive effect on the stiff expression on Charles' face. "You were very adamant in your response to my suggestion that you try living separately. Can you explain why?

His hands around mine tighten, and I can see he's struggling to find the right answer rather the real answer.

"We're a married couple, we're meant to be together, share a bed, share a life. I don't think separation is the way forward." He says eventually.

"Yet you've both selected a career, prior to you PTSD, that means you spend long periods of time away from each other and coped. As I understand it, had a thriving marriage prior to your recent difficulties. Are you reconsidering your career choice, Charles?"

"I don't really see where you're going with this?" he replies evasively, with an annoyed tone and his officer expression sliding into place. Straight lipped, slight head tilt, I recognise the expression too well. His defensive walls are firmly in place. He's fortress Charles and it's doing him no favours whatsoever.

"Let's take a step back. How does the thought of Molly living separately make you feel, for example in barracks during the week?"

"Truthfully?"

"Always truthfully, please."

"Angry. We're putting ourselves through this counselling to be a strong couple, not separate our lives. What you're suggesting is annoying me, intensely."

She turns to me suddenly, blues eyes probing, leaving me feeling uncomfortable to be suddenly the centre of her attention. I swallow.

"Molly, you gave Charles your hand to hold, can I ask why?"

It was an automatic thing that I did, I'm not really sure why. I just knew that he needed the contact. But I'm not sure how to explain something so instinctive to a stranger.

"He's upset, it was just sort of automatic."

"Upset?"

"Anxious, agitated. Am I not using the right word? I don't understand what you want me to say?"

"Charles? Why do you think Molly is instinctively reading your response as anxious, when you are using the word annoyed?"

"Because it makes me feel anxious, damnit. The idea of my wife living a separate life from mine makes me feel fucking anxious, okay. That doesn't mean it's the PTSD talking, which I'm assuming you hinting at, it means it's the scared husband who knows how much he's fucked up his marriage talking."

Charles stands up and turns his back to us, still holding my hand. Every line of muscle in his lean frame is tense.

"I'm sorry, I can't do this anymore today." he says, directing the words to me rather than Maria. "I need to walk this off, I'll see you at home after work, okay?" I squeeze is hand, reach into my bag and pass him the car keys.

"Don't be a muppet with that leg, drive it off."

He presses a kiss to the crown of my head, lingering on the contact, nods to Maria, then leaves.

 **ooOOoo**

His text messages start about forty-five minutes later. Apologies and a need to know where I am. Should he come and collect me? His PTSD led anxiety speaking for him again. Over protective and smothering though never intentionally so.

He phones straight after the last text, and I answer him with careful neutral and calm voice, despite my upset and worry. I'm doing what I promised I wouldn't–managing him again.

I tell him I'll be heading home soon, but that I wanted to get a few bits of shopping done, which is a lie. The reality is, I'm sitting in Henrietta Park, nursing a takeaway cup of tea and needing a bit of time to organise my thoughts. I suggest I meet him at home after work, since that's where he is following our appointment. It's his safe place where a familiar daily routine and rhythm will settle him back down, at least for a while. He accepts my suggestion, after asking a few questions around where I am, and when I'll be heading home. Same as work, fixed details and timings give him comfort and a mental safety net.

I end the call, then spend an hour alone with my thoughts people watching and nursing a cold cup of tea that I never really intended to drink.

 **ooOOoo**

He returns from work on time, and worn looking. I sit him down in the living room, and try to explain my thought on this afternoon, and the last four weeks since Georgie visited.

"This ain't working, is it? The second part of your treatment is supposed to be about confronting your triggers, pushing forwards through it."

Charles is sitting on the sofa beside me, hands clasped between his legs and staring at the rug on the floor like its fascinating. He knows what I'm saying, even if he doesn't want to put words around it, but that's okay, because I can.

"I'm holding you back."

His head jerks up, eyes now firmly set on mine.

"How can you say that? You've been nothing but supportive. All these months. I've put us both through the wringer, pushing you away… running away from the issues, then Lane… You have been by myside the whole time."

"I'm not arguing about any of what you're saying, but that's the big fat elephant in the room, ain't? That you can't let me away from your side. That's what Maria hinted at during that last meeting. What you've been avoiding, what I've been avoiding. Being apart and learning to cope with your actual trigger…me"

I touch his face with my hand and he his own comes up, holding my hand against his cheek firmly. I can feel that he is trembling.

"I don't understand, I thought you were happy. I'm in a barracks-based role so we both come home to each other every night, _finally_. I thought that was what you wanted? I've engaged with the treatment plan I was recommended. I've done everything that's been asked of me."

Except that last scary step and I know he knows that to be true, even as he's arguing the opposite. It's all there in his eyes and voice. Persuasive energy, earnest words… and fear and avoidance.

"I know, and I am happy and so, so _proud_ of you. Everything you've achieved. I have my husband back."

"Then why–"

"We need to finish this journey, Charles. We're only half way there."

I only realise I've quoted back words he once used to me, when he sort of half laughs with a grimace that's far from happy.

"I thought that was my line?"

"Yeah, it was, but that's not the point. I'm going to take Emily up on her offer of staying at her parents place in Bloxham."

Watching the colour drain from his face, just makes this even harder. I know I'm doing the right thing by pushing this point, but, fuck me, it hurts to see him look so shaken. I hold his face gently, trying desperately to stop myself dissolving into tears and keep on talking around the rapidly forming lump in my throat.

"I know Colonel Beck phoned you about space on the residential counselling course again. I know you haven't got back to him yet, and I know why."

He swallows, and I can see how effected by this he is. "Molly, I don't want to do this. I'm not ready."

"I know you're not, neither am I, but unless _we_ face this, _we're_ never going to be ready. This is about us not just you being ready, I swear to you, I'm not pushing you away or leaving you."

He shakes his head, ready to argue, but I cut him off before he has a chance.

"Do you love me?"

"Fucksake, Molly, of course I do, more than anything. You're everything to me."

"Then I need you to do this, for me, for us. Confirm your attendance at the residential course. Get stronger, heal, cope. I'll be waiting for you when you're done. I swear to you."

"And if it doesn't work?"

There it is. His Achilles heal. Fear of failure.

"Then I'll still be here, and we'll deal with whatever that means. I'm not going anywhere."

 **ooOOoo**

Four days later, and now I'm the one watching my husband drive away. I'm sick to my stomach but telling myself that I'm giving him his best chance to heal from his wounds. That this should be nothing, a blip. It's a minimally ten weeks absence in a relationship that has weathered stretches of six months or more apart.

It doesn't matter that I know all that. It still hurts. The lump in my throat threatening tears, again, suggests that my heart isn't on the same page of logic as my brain and it hurts.

Charles this morning…. he was so upset. I push the thought away, but I can't lose the guilt thought that I forced him into going back to Headley.

Last night, we both put on a brave front and struggled through a lovely dinner that neither of us really touched, cuddled up on the sofa to watch TV to which neither of us paid any attention. After all that, alone in the protective darkness of our bedroom, it was all about touch, words and his heart-breaking desperation to make sure I knew how much he loved me and that he was not leaving willingly.

When he finally fell asleep with his head on my shoulder, his sleep was restless and for me non-existent, because all of my belief that this was the right course for us both started being drown out by shouting doubts.

Dry-eyed and forcing a smile that I really didn't feel, I sent off in a regimental car sent by Colonel Beck, knowing that every hour he's away facing is demons for _me_ , for _us,_ is going to kill me.

I stood out on our drive for long after the car drove away, turned the corner at the end of the road and went out of sight. Part of me is struggling to go back into the house because that would mean he was really gone. The neighbours must think I've lost it.

I'm left thinking who is suffering the separation more? Charles because of his PTSD or me with the heart that doesn't seem to know how to be away from him anymore. What a perfect pair we make.

Insert rolling eyed emoticon or ironic meme here.

I'll survive, the weekend at least. Emily is coming to stay tonight and has promised to bring wine and a sympathetic shoulder to cry on and tomorrow will be a spare pair of hands to help with some packing and my move to her parent's house.

On Monday I'll be back at work. I'm hoping the routine and being kept busy will settle me a bit.

Ten weeks. We survived longer. Maybe if I keep telling myself that I might actually start believing it.

 **ooOOoo**

Twelve weeks on and the separation is killing me. I miss him, I miss my old job and I'm not sure if I need my head read for believing that I have half the brain necessary to be successful on such an academically demanding course. He's away getting treatment for his PTSD and anxiety, but I'm the one stuck wondering if I've made a huge mistake. Skype calls and emails aren't enough but it' the nature of his condition that he has to stay away in a therapeutic setting to face his anxieties about being separated so he can heal. It still a bit shit though.

The house at Bloxham is beautiful. Red brick, slate roofed, oak beamed, English countryside gorgeous with a huge garden, absent neighbours and a pretty and surprisingly friendly village within walking distance. Picture perfect, as my Nan would say and as peaceful as Emily promised, when then the builders have gone home at least. If I'm honest, it's a bit too quiet. But everything at the moment without out him seems a bit too much. On my better days I have a grip of myself and keep busy, on my worst, I mope, think to much and miss him in the manner of some sort of tragic Victorian miss in a black and white movie. It's bit pathetic really.

Considering I'm the girl from Lewisham who said trees gave her the willies, I've caught myself settling on the grass, in the shade of one of the larger trees in the garden, to study more than once. I think this place might be growing on me.

This weekend, I'm all about the distraction technique again, so, I've invited Jackie and Matt. Their new minted romance is going great, and I could do with some happy vibes. They arrived late last night straight from work. Jackie's still in her pit, sensible woman, while I have volunteered to go for a run with Matt before breakfast.

Big mistake…

Bending over hand on knees, I pull the ear buds out of my ears, and the sound of Imagine Dragons Titanium fades to a rhythmic thump from the microphones hanging around my neck as I try and fail to catch my breath.

"I thought I was the one with the injury, Corporal James, seems you've been slacking in the PT department." Matt jeers with a grin. He looks sweaty, in that annoying fit and attractive sweaty personal trainer on the telly way.

I roll my eyes at him as I straighten up.

Me on the other hand, is a gasp wet mess in sweaty running gear with birds' nest hair and no doubt panda eyes, thanks to the mascara I was vain enough to put on this morning. I give him the stink eye, to which he just grins wider in response.

"We ain't on Basic anymore, so do me a favour and fuck off, okay bell-end?"

"That's Sergeant Bell-end, to you Corporal." He nudges his shoulder against mine playfully. "I believe the loser was making breakfast? Though I'm not sure if I'm ready for more of your cooking after last night's burnt offering."

"Even I can manage not to burn cereal. Coco-pops okay?" The look on horror on his face at the thought of such sugary goodness polluting his system has me cackling with laughter straight away.

"Fine, fine. I might be willing to walk down to the village and pick up some croissants, yoghurt and fruit. That work for you better, body beautiful?"

"How about we just go out for breakfast? I'll even drive. It's about time Jackie got up."

"Hmm, not sure I'm up for that much risk on a Saturday morning." I zing back, opening the garden side gate, and head around to the front of the house, Matt grabs the house keys from my hand and starts jogging backwards towards the house.

"Nah, mate. That would be if you were driving." Then turns and runs around the cornor yelling, "I get the shower first, yeah?"

"Oi, who said that Bell-end, it my bloody house."

I run round the corner after him laughing and stop dead in my tracks at the site of him standing attention in front of someone stood in Camo by the front door. My eyes take in the familiar lean lines of his back and breadth of his shoulders, and I'm running again. Charles turns, says my name, and then I about send us both to the floor by launching myself into his arms as tears flood down my face and Matt makes himself scarce.

My lips are on his before he has a chance to say anything and I'm drowning in the achingly familiar scent and feel of him and it's all I need in this moment as everything else falls away. He's the first to pull away, as he wobbles slightly, and I remember his bloody leg injury, and drop my legs from around his waist until I'm standing holding my own weight.

"Shit, you leg, I'm sorry." His arms tighten around me as I step back, as though he's worried I'm gonna do a runner or something.

"Molly." He says my name almost like he's breathing it, then presses his forehead to mine, and runs his hands up and down my back rhythmically. It feels amazing. Soothing, protective and safe–us. "I don't think you've any idea how much I've bloody missed you."

I pull back too look up into his face, and notice the crown insignia on his chest.

"You think I'm any different, _Major_ James?" He smiles tentatively in response. "Is this way you didn't come home last week?"

"I had the promotional panel. It was something I needed to do. I didn't want you worrying in case it went South and took me down with it."

"As if they'd turn you down. They're lucky to have you."

He grins. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I had to prove I was ready as much as anyone else."

"You'll be waiting on a placement, then? Guess we'll be relocating again. Doesn't matter, we'll make it work. I'm just so happy you're home." I say, surprised by the pang of regret that thoughts of leaving this house give me. I guess all of its cottagey cuteness must have rotted my city loving brain after all.

Charles pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket with a smile. "Last week was the promotion boards. This week was about this." He holds the paper out to me. "They've already offer me something in Surrey, Pirbright. A four-year training role. I haven't accepted it yet. I mean I wouldn't, not until I'd spoken to you, but I think it might work out for us both."

"I don't care where we end up. I'm just made up you're home at last. Everything is finally coming together."

"So, you'd say our journey's over then?" he says with a grin.

"I'd say it's only just getting start–"

His lips on mine silence my cheek in the best of ways.

 **ooOOoo**

A long time later, when my sex addled brain comes back to itself while I snuggled into his still damp and slightly out of breath chest, I remember Matt and Jackie.

Oh, Fuck! I'm never gonna hear the end of this from Jacs.

* * *

 _One more chapter to go, then this story will be finished._


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen – Four Years and a Lot of Living Later**

* * *

 _The first time I heard you laugh,_

 _I only wanted to say funny things_

 _so you would always be laughing._

 _You know what happens to chocolate_

 _when you leave it out in the sun?_

 _I'm that unfortunate chocolate_

 _and you, you are the laughing sun._

 _For this reason, I am offering myself to you_

 _not as a martyr or some selfless fool,_

 _but as a self-indulgent moth_

 _who actively pursues the light_

 _without much fear for the flame._

 _The moth who revels in the heat_

 _and declares:_

 _Burn me._

 ** _― Kamand Kojouri_**

* * *

"Welcome. You may be seated."

Sitting a few rows back from the soon to be happy a couple, I settle myself on the pew beside Charles and reach for his hand in an effort to stop the sentimental tears that are threatening to escape. Being soppy at weddings is not normally my thing, but for some reason this wedding is hitting me right in the feels, as Sam would say.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today, in the presence of God, to witness the joining together of Matthew and Jacqueline…"

Watching Jacs and Matt takes their vows, I reflect on how much time has passed between their first meeting to them sealing the deal with friends and family in attendance. Bit like Charles and I, it's been a journey for them, as it has for us.

So many highlights and lows–it's been a roller coaster few years. My Graduation, promotion to Sergeant and new job at Frimley. Charles' decision to leave Pirbright and take a Welfare Task Force role in Aldershot despite being offered an operation command post. The desk job he swore he'd never do, and yet he has and he's happy with the choice because he's making a difference and that's always been important to him.

Charles presenting me with the keys and the deeds to the house in Bloxham because I'd developed a ridiculous soft spot for the creaky, drafty crooked little house in the countryside. It was where we rebuilt our relationship from roots to new branches, and I'd been sad at the thought of leaving when Emily's parents finally decided to sell it because we'd made it a home. He made it our home.

Things haven't always been easy for him with his PTSD. Though he's recovered from the Army's point of view he still has good and bad times. So much less so now, but it was tricky in the early days. Survivors call it walking the black dog. A phrase allegedly coined by Winston Churchill, Charles informed me, because that was his way of coping with it. Researching, learning his enemy, finding ways to get around it or let it go. It's why he's making a difference working in a Welfare role, because he has walked the same path and fought the same battles as the people he is producing policies and training people to support.

I knew that dog myself for a while. We lost my Nan after eight-one years lived unapologetically to the fullest. She passed in her sleep from a brain haemorrhage and was found by my mum and Jade the next day looking like she was sleep, with her morning cigarette laid out waiting for her to wake up. That's a phone call I never want to live through again. I bolted. Just got in the car and drove and drove. Charles found me, hours later, standing by the water in the dark at Laugharne. Instead of the bollocking I probably deserved for running away from the reality of my Nan being gone, he took me in his arms and held me while I cried. Afterwards, supporting my mum and the kids and holding it together for them, while I was inwardly crumbling, was hell. Behind closed doors I was a mess and he was my rock.

I never met Georgie again and only heard about her through the grapevine or via Fingers. She stayed in and made it to sergeant after taking a placement at BATUS in Canada, met an Army Doctor and was settled down in Alberta apparently, so maybe time healed things for her in the end. She deserved to be happy. It was what Elvis would have wanted.

From Jacs and Matt meeting to this wedding day, there has been so much living, love and loss. Four years' worth, and here we are…together. I remember standing outside an Army Recruitment Office window, so many years ago, the night of my eighteenth birthday and staring at my reflection while feeling cheated because I was legal an adult and still felt like a lost child. From who I was then to who I am now has been a journey and a half, but now I feel like I've arrived. Achieved my goals and found my idea of happiness. I might not have all the answer to all the problems I might face, but I had a bloody good base from which to tackle whatever life might throw at us.

'Us', even that doesn't mean the same anymore, I think, smoothing a hand over my still flat stomach. It's early yet, so still a secret just between the two of us, but I kind of like it that it's only for us to know for now. In a few weeks' time I'm scheduled to have my first scan and we'll get to meet the little bundle of cells and potential that's growing inside my belly. Charles started to the baby nugget, because he of our squabbling about whether it's a he or a she. I said, I'd rather he didn't refer to our future child as something listed on a McDonalds menu, but I have to admit the pet name has grown on me.

Charles pecks a kiss against the top of my head and I look up to see him looking at me with a raised eyebrow and an expression that silently asks: you okay? I smile, nod, then snuggle in against his chest as his arm comes around my waist and his hand subtle brushes against my stomach to rest on my own hand.

A burst of music announces the ceremony is over as Jackie and Matt pass down the aisle hand in hand ready to start married life together, thoroughly smitten. So adorable. Tears I've been struggling to hold back finally escape down my cheeks despite my best efforts, and Charles presents me with a tissue with perfect timing and a wry smile.

"I told you I wasn't going to need that, didn't I?" I grumble.

"You know I subscribe to the 7P," he says with a smug smile as the church starts to empty around us. "and you have been a bit emotional recently."

"What are you on about?"

"Good old Army adage: **P** roper **P** lanning and **P** reparation **P** revents **P** iss **P** oor **P** erformance, especially were my stubborn wife's needs are concerned."

"Bleedin' Rupert to the core aren't you."

"Very true. I guess it's as well you love me, isn't?"

"I guess it is."

"I thought you might love me for this as well?" he says, withdrawing an envelope from the pocket of his uniform with a very pleased with himself smile and a cheeky cock of his head as he puts it into my hand.

I open it.

"You didn't?"

"It would appear that I did."

"When did you find the time to arrange all this behind my back?"

"I told you, 7ps–"

The elbow I thrust into his stomach causes him to grunt out a pained breath around his laughing.

"Stop taking the piss. Are these real?" I ask, bottom lip trembling because these bloody pregnancy hormones are turning me into a lunatic.

Suddenly his face is all serious and worried looking, as his brows pluck together in a worried frown because I'm a pregnant loon who emotes happiness by dissolving into a teary mess at the drop of a plane ticket to Hawaii. My dream honeymoon destination that we never manage to make because of lack of time and both our schedules after the wedding.

He reaches to hold my face in his palms.

"They're real, I swear. It's in six weeks' time. I thought with the baby coming it might be a last chance of a long-haul holiday for a while. But after you've been checked out and got the okay from the Doctor to fly, of course. I was hoping your morning sickness will have settled down by then. All the books said it should, I even checked with my mother…" He looks unsure, as my tears just start coming faster. "They're flexible tickets. I can cancel them. I haven't booked a hotel because I thought you might want to help with that. Even got travel insurance sorted. Have I fucked up?"

"No." I squeak in reply as he wipes tears away from my cheeks with his thumbs.

"Then–"

"It's the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever…" I wave my hand around, flapping it in front of my face, trying to stop the full on sob fest that is threatening because my husband is a bloody miracle of consideration wrapped in dress uniform number one, which is most favourite, so super gorgeous with a heart to match, except I can't get my hormone sozzled brain to find the words to explain outside of making hiccup-like sobbing noises. "And I love it…"

"I'm really not getting that from your response."

"I just need a hug." I manage to gasp out around the lump in my throat and his expression melts until he's all soft smile and gooey-eyed like he's been introduced to a cute Disney character, tiny kitten, or something else too adorable for words. These tears are any but bloody cute, _damnit_.

I managed a scowl, but he just smiles even wider.

"Come here then." He says, pulling me into his arms as I cling to him, half across his lap by the time I've got close enough to be satisfied, and cry into the warm skin of his throat. Thank Christ the church is now empty.

"Fucking hormones," I say several minutes later.

"I'm getting kind of fond of your hormones."

"Turning me into a sappy idiot," I grumble, wiping my face.

"I'm rather fond of your softer side. You needing me for once."

I pull a face at him because this is an old, old argument. He's knows I need him just as much. He's just better at expressing it.

"Not this again."

"Yes, this again."

"Only you could find something cute in a wife who can't make up her mind which end of the emotional spectrum she's feeling from one minute to the next. I'm turning into a mad woman."

Charles drops a kiss on my cheek, then neck, so gently I barely feel it but for the warmth of his breath against my skin, before tucking his face against my hair, arms tightening as he murmurs against my ear.

"When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face…"

Soppy idiot, and I'm crying again.

He pulls back to survey the wet mess that I am with a soft smile, eyes all dark and warm in that _way_ he just has of saying something with a look or a touch. Then I'm being held against his chest, sheltered and protect, despite the fact I'm making a prize prat of myself.

His perfectly prepared tissues appear again, with the rest of the packet this time, and I use a couple to wipe my eyes, leaving a black stain behind on the white paper.

"Sorrows of my changing face? Is that a comment about my running mascara? Bloody MAC waterproof. Waterproof my behind."

He laughs. "There I was thinking my prowess with poetry had moved you to tears and you're actually worried about your make-up."

"Don't bothering taking any credit for me being an emotional moron. That's all Nugget's fault… and I might have liked the bit about pilgrim soul… maybe." I offer reluctantly. "While being a bit of a prat about it."

"Like I said, I'm very fond of your softer side, even if it is a bit like coming home to an unexploded emotional bomb sometimes." He presses a kiss to my hand, grinning with cheek. "You know me, always enjoyed a challenge."

"Stop taking the piss."

"Sorry." He holds his other hand out to me, helping me to my feet as we head down the aisle to the sunshine outside.

"The tickets, destination, everything is amazing. Thank you."

"Your welcome." he says, his arm warm around my waist as we make our way out to our car because photographs are something I'd better skip until have fixed my make-up.

"You really check about morning sickness with your mother?"

He pulls a face that suggests this is not a conversation to continue, and I get a scowl when I start giggling. I can imagine. His mother must have loved it. Over sharing about pregnancy symptoms while enjoying him squirming. Classic. I must ask her about it.

A while later, sitting car, he waits patiently while I fix the wreck that is my formally carefully applied makeup, with a strangely pensive expression on his face. Like he's been thinking deep thoughts.

Mascara wand put away, and puffy eyed mess hidden under concealer and coloured powdered, I turn to him with a question in my expression.

"Okay?"

His large hand covers my stomach again, and he smiles one of those amazing smiles of his. All melting dark chocolate irises, dimples and eye crinkles when he is just too bleedin' handsome to be believable.

"You know you're my world, don't you? Both of you."

He is just too much, and all mine… and damn, here come those tears again…

 **ooOOoo**

 ** _Three Weeks Later_**

The grey grain image on the screen has me captivated from the minute the Sonographer got everything setup and the discomfort from my screamingly full bladder disappears because there on the screen is nugget. Except not and I'm struggling to get my brain wrapped around that concept.

The sonographer makes a happy humming noise, followed by a smile. "Congratulations. It's twins."

My Dad's description of tiny babies being like a miniature version of Mr Blobby floating in a pond in profile is actually descriptively accurate…disturbingly. Except there are two…Mr or Miss Blobbys… or one of each.

 _Fuck…_

I can't find anything sensible to say but not to worry, Charles–cool, calm and every way collected James will have something grounding and common-sense filled to say… any minute now.

I turn to look at him, as the Sonographer yaps on in the back ground about needing to see the consultant, bla, bla, bla…

Charles' large hand is still wrapped around mine, his camo clad arm, shirt rolled to above the elbow in correct uniform code form, is tense. Sinews standing out against the flat muscle of his lower arm and wrist. His expression is surprising grim, as he stares with intense concentration at the grainy image of our babies floating around oblivious to the two person news bomb that just dropped on their parents.

I'm about to shake his hand to try to get a response from him, when the sonography calls him Major James, and he physically jerks, like he's received an electric shock. He sits up straight, his eyes moving to me, and running over my face, as his hand tightens on my own.

"You okay?" I ask, and he smiles his whole face relaxing from its earlier tight expression.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"Go on then."

"You okay?"

I giggle and nod, grinning like a lunatic, because despite the terrifying reality of two babies, I'm very, very okay. Amazed, shock as all hell, but absolutely okay.

He leans over, pressing his forehead to mine then whispers, "I love you, so much."

When he straightens up, we stare at each other for an emotionally loaded moment as, still holding my hand, his thumb rubs over the back of my fingers rhythmically. The sonographer rustles some papers in a slightly over exaggerated manner, like she's trying to remind us that she's still here.

Charles blinks slowly for several seconds, takes a deep breath and then I realise that there's a suspicious sheen of something like well held in tears in his eyes. He turns to the Sonographer after making a manly coughing noise.

"Yes, twins. Amazing, and everything is okay? With my wife, and the baby–babies?"

"Absolutely on track and perfect." she replies with a wide smile and a slightly mushy look on her face. I like to call this the Major James effect. That face in uniform = mushy females, as a bit of a rule.

I look over to Charles again, and can see he's trying to get himself back into Mr In-control-officer mode, then catch the sonographer watching him as well. We share a look. Yeah, he's not fooling her either. It would appear hormones effect men as well. Who knew!

 **ooOOoo**

 ** _24 Weeks, 3 days, 12 hours and some odd number of minutes later…_**

Another consultant meeting later, and I'm in an even worse mood than my sleep deprived brain was this morning when Charles helped me get up and out of bed. I'm huge now, laying down and getting back up again involves help, or a lot of grunting and rolling around. Not attractive.

A solid night's sleep, like easy sight of my ankles, is a long distant memory. Getting comfort is an impossible dream and, even when I do manage to sleep, weird dreams or the need to go to the toilet wake me up anyway.

I've taken to watching a lot of weird o'clock in the morning TV. Maternity Crisis and similar such programmes seem to be on, and I'm left wondering, do the TV channels put them on at this time deliberately just to freak out sleepless pregnant people?

Charles gets my grumpy self settled on the sofa with a mug of tea and sandwich that heart burn won't let me finish without reaching for the Gaviscon. He squats down by myside, his hand on my knee as he eases off my shoes, then massages my feet.

He's good that way. No way I'd being going near his manky swollen feet if the roles were reversed. He even took my squirmingly asked request for assistance with shaving my legs on the chin like the trained professional he is. It was me that almost died of embarrassment. I drew the line at assistance with prepping of other lady parts. I have an appoint with a waxing professional for that tomorrow.

"You okay? You seemed a bit upset when he said you'd might want to consider an elective c-section."

"There's time yet." I say mulishly. "Forty percent of twin births are natural. I'm only 36 weeks gone. Nugget number two might turn yet."

"Your tiny, Molly. With two good sized babies. The Consultant has said all along that he thought you might end up with an assisted delivery."

"Assisted doesn't necessarily mean c-section. You know I don't want that."

I'm being a bit unfair. I know he knows how I feel about this, but hospitals and doctors and interventions are to him safer, so better. While I'd rather hold out hope that Nugget number two will turn in time to be facing the right way for a natural birth because that's what I've set my heart on, with calming music, dark lighting and a birthing pool.

"My mother managed it seven times."

I can see him biting his tongue on his usual response to this statement. That I'm not my mother and she never had twins.

"C-section means longer recovery, more difficult time breast feeding and I'm gonna have two needing me. I can't be dealing with an abdominal wound as well."

"You're not going to be doing this on you own. I'll be here, and my mum and Belinda, if you want them both, are all going to be gagging to help in anyway we need. Hell, even Sam said he'd try changing nappies."

I snort at this idea. Newly turned teenage Sam, takes a lot of pursued to do something as simple as bring plates back from his room before they have a chance to become fuzzy mould gardens. I'm not buying the nappy offer, though I have been pleasantly surprised by how genuinely excited he was to be getting new brothers or sisters. Apparently twin siblings give you some sort of bragging rights at school.

Sam wants girls, Charles was firmly on the fence until my mum pursued him to admit to one of each being a nice idea. Me, I just want them out and healthy. I'll deal with what we got after they get here.

"There still time for nugget number to turn around and get with the programme." I look down at my stomach, and poke gently. "You hear that? You need to get with the programme because you're stressing mummy out."

An elbow or foot distorts the shape of my belly under my clothes, as a baby, or perhaps two shifts in response to the prod.

"Statically you're more likely to give birth any time now."

Shifting uncomfortably, I give him the stink eye, as he moves to shift the cushions behind my back automatically.

"Is the right, Carol Vorderman, you taking some time out from your busy Count Down schedule to look that little fact up?"

Charles raises his hands in an I surrender pose, and I sit back on the sofa with a huffy sigh.

 **ooOOoo**

Three am and I'm wide-awake right-on time. With some nifty manoeuvring using my elbows and the maternity bolster cushion I manage to get into a sitting position under my own steam. Charles, who has his head buried in the pillow beside me, opens his eyes in a half a wake sort of a manner, his arm groping across the bed to find my side empty.

"Molly?" he asks groggily.

"I'm fine," I say, stroking his arm. "I'm just going to the toilet. Back in a bit."

He mutters something that might have been okay and he's already back asleep. Lucky bastard.

I visit the bathroom, but decide not to return to bed. I'm wide awake now and the bottom of my back is aching in a way that laying back down isn't going to help. Instead I head down stairs, shivering slightly in my very unflattering granny nightie which is about the only bit of nightwear that still fit me. Wandering into the kitchen, I collect a dressing gown of Charles which is fresh from the wash and waiting to be put away and pull it on. It drowns me in all ways except for my stomach, trailing on the floor behind me as I collect a banana from the fruit bowl and head into our warmer under foot, carpeted living room.

The note book I was using earlier to jot down things to do before the baby arrives is still laying open on the coffee table with Charles' name by every task except watch Netflix, which was an item he added as a joke. As if I wasn't already indulging in it since I started maternity leave from the hospital three weeks ago. I wasn't really allowed to do much more than sofa surf because of my over protective husband. He has a point, being the size I am, I'm bit useless at many tasks and he's be more than happy to DIY to my specifications, and otherwise fetch and carry since even the simplest thing, like driving, has started to become harder.

I could settle to watch some TV now, but it's not appealing to me for some reason. I just feel a bit crampy and sore and oddly restless. I take to walking slow circles around the sofa, eating my banana and rubbing my back distractedly.

My mum thinks it's cute, the way Charles hovers. Her remarks on that subject are usually direct in an indulgent voice in Charles' direction then following by a venomous look towards my Dad, who was apparently as useful as tits on a fish during her pregnancies. Thank you, Sergeant Smith from Basic Training for that wholly inappropriate and often yelled saying.

I've been having tightening across my stomach on and off all day. Nothing to worry about, the midwife said at our appointment today. Braxton Hicks contractions are just my body getting ready for the main event. I have to say, nature, God or whatever really did not think things out before putting the process of bringing babies into the world into effect. I'm not sure how my body _practising_ results in me being uncomfortable and wide awake at stupid o'clock like that's a good thing.

Deciding I'm thirsty, i wander, or rather waddle back into the kitchen, bin the banana skin and put the kettle on wishing I'd thought to put on slippers or socks. I could retrieve some sock from the laundry basket. I'm considering it as I lean over as far as I can and contemplate the missing view of my feet passed the extended shape of my belly when it happens…

A weird sort of internal popping sensation, so faint it almost not there, followed by wetness running down my legs. Struck dumb, I stare at the spots of clear fluid on the floor. Fucking… shit… This is really happening. Then the cramping, tightening across my belly starts and I find my voice. _Loudly!_

"Charles!"

 **ooOOoo**

"Evelyn Anna and Carys Margaret James were born, by C-section, twelve hours later. I held out for as long as I could because I'm a stubborn mare like that, but the exhaustion of eleven hours of full blown labour tethered to a bed because of heart rate monitors and clips and drips, and the growing look of panic on Charles' face was enough to convince me maybe I didn't know better than a trained midwife, Consultant and several Healthcare Assistants. They were renamed Evie and Cari by their besotted big brother twenty-four hours later.

I may be stuck in a hospital room with the results of a surgery I never wanted but I'm also truly content. Two clear plastic cribs are within leaning distance, but only one is occupied, since we worked out that the babies prefer to share. Charles reckoned they missed each other. I suspect he's right.

There door opens slowly, and Charles comes in quietly with a tired smile, freshly showered in clean clothes and baring gifts. I smile back at him delighted he's back. He sits himself down on the edge of the bed, drops a kiss on my lips then leans over to the babies, placing his against them gently. They're so tiny, his one hand touches and spans them both, and the same smitten look, minus tears, from yesterday in the operating theatre washes over his face. He slips his arm around my shoulder, and I snuggle into his side trying to hide the wince from the pinch of pain the movement causes.

"You alright?" he asks with a worried frown.

"Never better. They have quality drugs here." I wave my arm at him, cannula and drip attached. "Straight to the vein, now that's what I call service."

"You'd tell me if you weren't?" I pull a face as his over protectiveness clearly hasn't eased up now that I've brought our daughters into the world.

" _Molly!"_ he says, with a distinct tone. "Do I need to speak to Emily and get her in here to talk some sense into you?"

Ah, the joys having a hospital consultant as a best friend and a husband who knows how to exploit the fact. I've already had a telling off by one of the midwifes along the lines of Nurses making the worst patients. A secondary lecturer from Emily will be wholly unnecessary.

"I promise. I'm fine. You'll be the first to know if I'm not."

"I know you want to get home, but you need to ready…really ready. Not Molly, 'I'll soldier' on ready. Okay?"

I salute him with my free hand and he kisses my cheek with a chuckle.

"Now I know you must be feeling fine, if your sass is back."

" _Sass?_ What sort of Rupert word is _sass_?"

"Nothing wrong with building your vocabulary up." he teases with a wink as his phone is pulled out of his pocket. "I'm sure I can look up an online dictionary for you if you like."

"Don't bother, I'm fairly fluent in posh twat, as it happens, since I live with one. Anyway, where's my breakfast?"

I eye the paper bag he put on the locker by the side of the bed. The food here makes Army grub look like a gourmet offering. Yesterday's dinner was mystery sauce around a potato, since I'd selected the vegetarian options apparently. I blame the drugs; I was a bit out of it when the menus came around. Still, it was apparently better than the meat offering, mystery meat, mystery sauce and a potato. My grumbling last night has brought about his morning mercy dash to McDonalds.

He reaches for the bag, laying the contents out for me with a flourish as I turn to him with a questioning expression.

"Three?"

"One is for me. I figured, with the old saying–eating for two– you're eating for three and thought you deserved an extra helping."

I love this man with my whole heart, and that rush of emotion has absolutely nothing to do with the two egg McMuffin he happens to have brought me for breakfast, or hormones, or drugs… honest.

 **ooOOoo**

 ** _One Year Later_**

Balancing on a kitchen chair while scraping porridge of the wall, I reflect on the fact that I'd thought breast feeding two was hard. Ha! Hadn't considered the perils of weaning two wiggly, messy bundles of fun back then. _At all._

Depositing the dish clothing back in the sink, I catch sight of the postie turning down the drive, and jog to the front door in case he rings the bell. Charles has just got the girls down to nap, and I don't want to deal with two over tired toddlers if they get woken up.

"Hey," I whisper, greeting him at the front door.

"Nap time?" he asks, placing some envelopes in my outstretched hand.

"Yeah, how can you tell."

"From the speed that you got to the front door." He waves and walks off, chuckling at his own little joke.

Bill, bill, credit card statement. Might need to hide that one for later. A shopping trip with my mother-in-law to Hamleys for the girls' birthday. Let's say we both got a bit excited so it was not a cheap outing. I stuff that envelope to the bottom of the pile, which leaves one remaining letter which has a hand written address. Intriguing.

Dear Molly

I debated with myself whether to send this letter, but in end decided I needed to because I wanted to be able to say something that I haven't had a chance to say in any other way. That is, thank you. I'm not sure if you understand how much you helped me that afternoon when I turned up at your house. You gave me permission to hold onto Elvis when everyone else, including myself, was telling me I had to let go.

It's taken a lot of time for remember our good times and let go of the bad memories. I've finally managed to accept we had many more good times than bad. He was in my life for such a short time, but changed me in so many ways and I want to celebrate that, not hide it away.

You gave me a chance to see I could do that and still move on with my life and keep Elvis as a part of me. He was the love of my life, just not the love of the rest of my life. Like your Great Gran said. I have a candidate for that role. His name is Paul, he's Canadian and about as opposite from Elvis as possible but we just fit. I think Elvis would approve.

I'm happy again and I know, thanks to Fingers, that you and Charlie are, too, with your beautiful little girls and Sam and I'm grateful for that every day. That's really all I wanted to say.

Georgie xx

I fold the letter back into the envelope to show to Charles when he comes back down stairs.

It's been more than five years since that last meeting and I never expected to hear from her again, but I understand why she might have needed to send that letter. Ending and beginnings and moving on are all wrapped in that letter with her thanks. Charles and I started moving on five years ago, Georgie need more time and I'm glad for her, that she found some balance and a way to move forwards.

Looking across the room to the mantle and the photo of Elvis and Charles on our wedding day, I smile because it's the same photo, in the same place but in a new house and a symbol of everything that her letter was talking about. I know she's right…Elvis would approve, and I find great comfort in that fact.

* * *

The poem Charles quotes is _When You Are Old_ by William Butler Yeats.

There we have it, the end. Molly and Charles healed, happy-ever-aftered and future proofed for whatever life chucks at them.

Thanks for sticking with it. ?


End file.
